


we kiss the dusk goodnight

by lacking



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Depression, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/M, Fix-It, Gold Sickness, Insomnia, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, M/M, Politics, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Rebuilding Erebor, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 68,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1264084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacking/pseuds/lacking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Thorin wins his throne but struggles with settling into his role as King Under the Mountain. Bilbo is torn between staying in Erebor or returning home, but wants to help while he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thorin is crowned at sunset, kneeling at the foot of a great statue that clasps a smithy’s hammer between its hands rather than a sword. 

Later, when Balin has drunk enough wine to bring two high spots of colour to his cheeks, he will tell Bilbo that the stone figure is meant to be Durin. He’ll explain that the room they stand in was the first place their ancestors laid tools to the mountain, that originally it was designed to be nothing more than a small, safe alcove to rest in. It took the Longbeards centuries to pay it homage, but in time the room was reworked, expanded and made beautiful, smoothed over with dark green marble and rippled through with veins of gold. The rounded ceiling has been decorated with jeweled tiles and the walls are lined with long, high windows, crafted delicately from coloured glass. 

It’s Bilbo’s favourite feature, though he keeps that to himself. Light streams into the room in tinted shades, casting patterns on the floor, glinting against Thorin’s armor and warming over his bright, clear eyes. 

Bofur nudges at Bilbo’s elbow, directing his gaze towards Dain as he approaches through the parting crowd. He looks nothing like his cousin, shorter with longer arms and narrower shoulders, hair the colour of dead leaves but with a beard that’s strangely more red than brown. Between his hands he holds a silver tray and on that tray sits a crown, a bold and heavy looking thing crafted from metal and stone and weaved through with shining threads of mithril. Dain raises it high before placing it on Thorin’s brow, grinning when Thorin tips up his chin, lifting his head to meet the weight of it. 

Dain’s profile is shadowed but Bilbo still catches the faint movement of his lips behind his beard. His words are spoken too softly to be heard, but whatever he says brings an exasperated look to Thorin’s face, a smirk to Lady Dis’ painted mouth from where she stands at her brother’s side.

Dain turns, his cloak billowing around him as he opens his arms and clears his throat. His eyes roam over those standing witness, his own soldiers and lords, the Company and the mix of dwarves that had found their way back to the mountain over the months Thorin had spent recovering. When he speaks again his voice is low and deep and loud, and Bilbo thinks _oh_ , because this is where his relation to Thorin finally shows. 

“So begins the reign of Thorin II of the line of Durin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, named ‘Oakenshield’ for his deeds in the battle of Azanubizar. Rightful heir to Erebor and King Under the Mountain!”

The end of his declaration is almost drowned out by the cheers that erupt throughout the hall, the stamping feet and clapping hands. Thorin is slow to rise, his jaw hardening as a slight wince forms around his eye, and Bilbo knows that beneath layers of steel and fine furs his wounds have yet to fully heal. There is a deep angry gash at Thorin’s side, curving along his hipbone and extending up towards his ribs. It had nearly been the death of him, had festered for weeks with poison and rot and still must be cleaned and checked daily for infection. 

But Thorin remains solid and steady on his feet, looking over his people and bowing his head before turning towards his family. He knocks brows with Dain and Dis, grips Fili’s shoulders with both hands and declares him his rightful heir in a booming voice. He says it smiling, says it while giving his nephew a warm shake that makes the beads in his hair rattle. Fili grins, handsome and proud, taking hold of Thorin’s wrist in return. Thorin moves on to Kili, no less affectionate as he grasps the boy by the scruff of his neck, naming him third in line even as the words bring a sheepish tilt to Kili’s smile.

The Company is then told to step forward. Thorin stands before each of them, speaking of their deeds on the journey, the strength they brought to the quest and the loyalty they have shown to him. Bilbo notices some nervous shifting among the crowd at that, guilty glances followed by shuttered eyes.

 _Good_ , he thinks, an unknown fire stirring to life deep within in belly. He remembers Thorin hunched over his dinner table in Bag End, speaking into the hushed anticipation that had filled Bilbo’s warm smial (“they will not come”). _Good. Let them be shamed_

Bilbo is last to be addressed. In the past year he has faced trolls and orcs and wargs. He has been chased across grassy plains, has scaled mountains and journeyed beneath them. He has snuck around spiders and elves and stood before a dragon and army both. And yet he is still a hobbit, a peculiar one, perhaps, but a hobbit all the same, and he finds it difficult to stand beneath the weighted attention of every dwarf in the room. His stomach rolls and twists into a tight knot, and Bilbo locks his arms, curls his fingers into fists at his side to keep himself from fidgeting.

Thorin smiles at him, haloed in fading daylight. He looks nearly as bold as the statue that towers behind them, dressed in polished silver and rich blues, and for a moment he seems almost a stranger to Bilbo, so different from the dwarf that had smirked at him in his front hallway, that embraced him on the carrock and sneered down at him from atop the proud gates of Erebor.

“Bilbo,” he says, and his voice is lower now, as if these words are meant to be private despite their onlookers. “This quest would have been for naught if you hadn’t come running after us the morning we departed from your home. I have been discourteous with you, underestimated you, I have… failed in upholding our friendship.”

Thorin pauses, then. He doesn’t lose the steel in his spine but something softens in his eyes, a skittering vulnerability that’s quickly smothered down. 

“From this day forward let it be known that you will always be welcome in the halls of my forefathers, and that you will be met with nothing less than my gratitude and reverence.” 

Thorin reaches out, his hand curling over the ball of Bilbo’s shoulder, his thumb drifting along the thin line of his collarbone. A prickling heat rises to the back of Bilbo’s neck when Thorin ducks down and leans in close, and for a fluttering, mad instant, Bilbo thinks that Thorin is going to kiss him.

Their brows meet, a soft brush of skin on skin, Thorin’s crown catching against Bilbo’s curls. Bilbo pulls in a quick breath because Thorin’s eyes are still open and focused and very, very blue, the kind of blue that dwarves must surely sing praise of when they find the colour locked in some stone or precious gem.

The touch drags on for a beat, and then another, though precisely how long they stay like that Bilbo can't say. There’s a quiet rustling through the crowd, and when Thorin pulls back Bilbo catches sight of Dain blinking over the king's shoulder, of Dis tilting her head. 

Thorin squeezes Bilbo’s arm before he turns away, and if the fading whispers bother him he makes no sign of it. When Thorin speaks again it’s to the whole of the room, his words in khuzdul, meaningless to Bilbo but still harsh and powerful on his tongue. 

 

 

Try as he might to avoid them, curious glances follow Bilbo long after Thorin's coronation ends. When they move into the dining hall Bilbo is quick to place himself between Dwalin and Gloin, hunching low in his seat and hoping that their broad shoulders will be enough to hide him from view. From across the table Balin looks upon his discomfort with amusement, though his expression is not unkind. He fills a polished goblet with red wine, pushing it forward across the tabletop and into Bilbo’s hand.

Thorin, Fili, and Kili are the only members of the Company missing from the table. Instead they sit at the head of the dining hall along with Dis and Dain and small group of dwarf lords. Bilbo risks a glance towards them around Gloin’s girth, biting back a smile at the tedious expression that has settled on Kili’s face, the quick eye-roll Fili offers his brother behind the back of a finely dressed dwarf with a grey beard. They’re troublemakers, the two of them, crown princes or no, and Bilbo’s mood lightens, soothed by the knowledge that he’s not the only one feeling out of place.

Thorin rises from his seat when dinner is served, holding up his glass and toasting to those who fell in battle. He falls back into khuzdul, but the flowing candor of his voice makes Bilbo think he’s reciting an oath or a poem. Bilbo bows his head, listens, waits, and drinks when the dwarves do.

“He’s doing well,” Dwalin remarks afterwards, reaching for a drumstick. The noise throughout the hall is steadily rising and it takes Bilbo a moment to piece his words together.

“Shouldn’t he be?” Bilbo asks, frowning. To his knowledge Dwalin has not once spoken ill of Thorin. The note of surprise in his voice strikes Bilbo as strange, out of place.

Dwalin shrugs. Balin leans forward in his seat.

“Not an easy role, that of a king,” he says. “Even the strongest dwarf may take to stumbling beneath the weight of it. And keep in mind, laddie, that the days when Thorin was meant to be groomed for his position are long past.”

“Then... you think he’s unprepared?”

Dwalin scoffs, like the very notion offends him, befuddling Bilbo all the more.

Balin remains patient.

“ _Some_ may say so, aye.” He offers a quick glance towards a table filled with counselors from the Iron Hills, one white eyebrow lifting when he turns back towards Bilbo. 

“Ah,” Bilbo says. 

“’Ah’, indeed.” 

Dwalin pushes out his chair with a screech of wood on stone, apparently now done with this line of conversation. “Shouldn’t have even mentioned it. This is meant to be a celebration, hm? There’s far too little mead on this table.”

The music picks up not long after Dwalin’s departure. Balin excuses himself, leaving to speak to an acquaintance from the Blue Mountains, and much of the table seems to follow his in his example. Ori offers to keep Bilbo company but a dwarf in the corner seems to have caught his eye and Bilbo sends him off with a wave. He doesn’t mind the lack of company all too much, so long as there is wine and leftover side dishes to hold his attention. Every now and then a new dwarf looks in his direction, but none seem interested in approaching, which Bilbo is perfectly fine with. He’s not entirely sure what he would say to any of them if they did, but _please stop staring_ doesn’t seem right for the occasion.

Kili takes him by surprise, plopping down next to him in Gloin’s abandoned seat.

“Hullo, Bilbo,” he says. “Come dance with me?”

Bilbo blinks at him very slowly before shaking his head. Kili’s shoulders slump.

“Oh, please?”

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

“But I’m bored!”

Bilbo frowns, reaching up to give Kili’s ear a sharp pinch.

“Ow! Hey, cheeky little—”

“It’s your uncle’s coronation, Kili.”

“Well… yes, exactly. No one cares about what I’m doing. Thorin and Fili are the ones getting all the attention.”

Kili shrugs, looking only a little putout. Bilbo studies his face for a long moment before deciding it’s unlikely to be an act. Kili is brave and charming and even clever in his own right, but he has no interest in ruling. And as fond as Bilbo is of the lad, he thinks that’s likely for the best.

“Please?” Kili says again, jutting out his bottom lip. It’s a terrible pout but it makes Bilbo laugh all the same. He sighs, his resolve crumbling. 

“Fine,” Bilbo says, regretting his decision the moment Kili takes his arm and drags him up from his seat.

Bilbo hasn’t danced since he was in his tweens, and even then he had the benefit of being drunk. He remembers those warm nights in Hobbiton, soft grass beneath his feet and twinkling lamps strung from trees, the world spinning when he grew bold enough to lift a pretty lass up by the waist and spin her around until they fell to the ground together in a giggling heap.

That had been his first kiss, he recalls. A quick peck on the lips followed by a longer, lingering touch, a wet tongue sliding against his own. It had taken another dance for anything more to happen, for Bilbo to learn with some surprise that kissing a lad could be just as lovely as kissing a lass, that maybe it was something he liked even a little more.

“I’m going to lose a toe,” Bilbo murmurs, gritting his teeth when a foot falls dangerously close to his own.

Kili snickers, twirling Bilbo around and placing his back against the offending dwarf. “We offered you boots once, I recall.”

“Boots are precisely the problem, Kili.”

Kili laughs, but does seem to take special care in avoiding Bilbo’s feet.

“I’m going to pass you off,” Kili says, looking at something over Bilbo’s head. 

“You what?”

“It’s part of the dance. Don’t worry, you’ll come back.”

“Kili—” Bilbo tries to tighten his grip. Kili snorts and shakes his hand away. “Kili, I don’t know any of these dwarves.”

“Sure you do. You’re going to Nori first.”

Bilbo opens his mouth but all that comes out is a squeak as Kili steps aside and shoves him forward. 

“Master Baggins,” Nori says, catching Bilbo’s arm before he trips. He offers him a formal bow followed by a quick wink, taking Bilbo’s hands and guiding him into the next section of the dance with ease. 

“Master Nori. Behaving yourself?”

“Oh, about as much as I usually do.”

“So not at all, then?”

Nori looks at Bilbo as if deeply insulted, but seems pleased when Bilbo smirks at him.

“Lad or lass?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Your next partner. Preference?”

“I—”

“Too late! The lad it is!” Nori says, passing Bilbo on to a stout, young dwarf with a long beard that’s been teased into knots. He looks Bilbo over and gives him hearty pat on the shoulder, spinning him just once before handing him off again.

The dance continues in much the same way until the song slows to an end. Bilbo’s final partner is a dwarf maiden with chestnut brown hair and freckles scattered along her pale arms. She blinks down at Bilbo before a spark of mischief flickers to life in her dark eyes.

“Well, aren’t you a sweet faced thing,” she says, giggling as she touches Bilbo’s bare jaw, pinching at his warming cheek. They are close enough to the head table that Bilbo can hear low, rolling laughter behind him, and just as Bilbo is whisked back off towards Kili he catches sight of Thorin watching him from over a goblet of wine, eyes crinkling as he chuckles into his cup.

“I hate you all,” Bilbo says when Kili takes his arm again. Kili merely grins at him in response.

Kili walks Bilbo back to his table, giving his cheek another quick parting pinch before running off to find Fili. To Bilbo’s surprise he only receives more invitations to dance after that, many from dwarves he’s never met before. He declines them all as politely as he can, preferring to spend the rest of the night as a wallflower.

“Here,” Bofur says, pushing a mug of ale at him “Pace yourself though, there’s more where that came from.”

It’s not a lie. The moment that Bilbo finishes his drink another dwarf is at his elbow, offering him more. Dwalin seems particularly giving, passing Bilbo different beers and wines, each one in a larger cup than the last. Bilbo only manages to escape by stepping out onto the balcony, claiming to feel stuffy and light-headed and begging them all to just let him have some air, _please_.

“Ah, better let him,” Bofur says. “I remember the last time our hobbit needed some air he took to fainting!”

“Yes, hilarious, _thank you_ ,” Bilbo says, though he doubts anyone hears him over the swell of laughter.

The mountain wind is icy, biting at Bilbo’s ears and nose, but it’s still a pleasant change from the heat inside. Bilbo’s breath mists on the air and he begins to shiver as the sweat on his neck cools, but the thick dwarven tunic he wears is more than enough to keep him from freezing.

Bilbo walks forward, rolling back his shoulders and steeling himself as he approaches the edge of the balcony. He pushes up onto the tips of his toes, peering over the high stone railing and down into the darkness below. 

It helps, not being able to see the bottom, the rocky chasm and charred land that stretch on for miles below. He resists the urge to bring a hand up to his throat, to rub at long healed phantom bruises. 

_Stop,_ he tells himself. _Leave it behind you, Baggins_.

There’s still a drink in Bilbo’s hand and he distracts himself by sniffing at it cautiously. The scent alone is enough to bring tears to his eyes, and Bilbo finds himself suddenly longing for a taste the old Gaffer’s homemade brew followed up by a slow smoke from his pipe, the bowl stuffed full of longbottom weed and not the harsh tasting herbs dwarves seem to prefer.

Bilbo looks around. There’s a pair of dwarves to his right, falling against each other and laughing, and another few further down absorbed in their conversation. None of them are paying Bilbo any mind. He takes a long look at his mug before bringing it up to rest on top of the railing, wondering if anyone would notice him pouring the drink over the ledge.

“Some may consider that rude.” 

Bilbo jumps, bringing his arm back down as he turns, whisky slopping over his chilled fingers.

Thorin steps up beside him, tugging at the collar of his cloak before tucking his hands neatly behind his back. There’s a small, slanted smile on his lips, and its presence makes something in Bilbo’s chest flutter, makes him feel suddenly bold and wanting to impress.

“What do you mean?” He says, straightening up, feigning innocence. 

Thorin inclines his head and lifts an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. Bilbo imagines that such an expression has been used often on Fili and Kili.

He sighs. “All right, yes, how very rude of me. I don’t suppose you want it, then?”

Thorin snorts. To Bilbo’s surprise he plucks the mug from his grasp and takes a long, slow pull, the stone in his throat bobbing as he drinks.

“ _Ah,_ ” he pulls the drink away with a sigh, wrinkling his nose. “Bit strong for you, I think.”

“Hmph, well, excuse you,” Bilbo says, extending his hand. Thorin blinks, returning the mug, a soft laugh escaping him when Bilbo risks a mouthful.

The alcohol burns on Bilbo’s tongue and down his throat. He comes very close to choking on it but refuses to sputter, only coughing into his sleeve once he manages to swallow.

“That tastes like a boiled bog,” he declares

Thorin lifts a shoulder, his armour clicking out and back into place. “As I said: too strong.”

Thorin motions for the rest, and it occurs to Bilbo that there may be something improper about this, to behave in such a familiar manner with a King where there are others around to see. Thorin downs the remainder of the whisky, warm colour flooding his cheeks. He licks a bead of escaped moisture from his lip as he finishes, and Bilbo’s face burns hot against the frosty mountain air.

“Uncle!” 

Fili sticks his head out the door, looking entirely too relieved when he spots Thorin nearby. He brings a swell of noise with him, laughter and yelling, the starting notes of a new song. Thorin looks over his shoulder, nodding once and passing the mug back off towards Bilbo as he turns to him again.

“I must—”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

The music swells, drowning out Bilbo’s words. Thorin frowns and leans down towards the hobbit for the second time that night, his dark hair falling around his face like a curtain, hiding the rest of the world from view.

“I would speak to you in private before the night is done,” Thorin says, his breath warm and damp against the shell of Bilbo’s ear. “You know the location of my chambers?”

“I—yes,” Bilbo says. His throat clicks as he swallows. Thorin smells of spiced liquor and smoke, of grass after a rainstorm and old worn leather. Bilbo nods to emphasize his point, unsure if Thorin can hear him the roar of the dining hall, and the motion causes his cheek to rub against the coarse hair on Thorin’s jaw. 

Thorin straightens with a quick jerk, the heel of his hand coming up to rest against the pommel of his sword, smoothing over the crafted metal. It’s an assuring gesture, Bilbo knows, a calming one, and he doesn’t for a moment feel threatened.

 _A good sign_ he thinks, feeling light.

“Later then,” Thorin says, though Bilbo reads his lips more than he hears his voice. 

They walk back inside together, Bilbo pausing near the door to watch as Thorin veers away. Fili is chatting to a dwarf that bears Dain’s crest on his tunic, and his shoulders ease and relax when Thorin comes to a stop at his side.

Bilbo makes his way back towards his friends, offering Dwalin a thin smile when another beer is shoved in his face. He nurses it for most of the following hour, sipping slowly and hoping that by the time he finishes it will have helped to quell the nervous jittering in his stomach.

Bilbo hasn’t been completely alone with Thorin in months, not since he was taken to his side after the battle. 

 

 

Bilbo awoke lying on his stomach, caught beneath the weight of a dead warg. There was blood matted in his hair and dribbling over his cheeks in thick lines, stinging at his eyes when he tried to turn his face away from the mud. There was dirty water on his lips and and with each breath it felt like more and more air was being crushed from his lungs. Bilbo coughed and spat, curled his fingers into claws as he scrabbled at the ground, dirt gathering beneath his nails as he tried to drag himself free.

That was how the scouting party found him. Two dwarves rolled the warg away while another stepped forward, scooping Bilbo up into his arms as if he were a child. Bilbo kicked out and made a half-hearted sound of protest, but his head was aching and his chest was tight and it felt as though thousands of needles were being stabbed into his legs. There would be time later for him to fret over his dignity.

They brought him to Balin who looked him over and patched him up, taking a damp cloth to Bilbo’s face and carding his fingers through Bilbo’s dirty curls until he found the thin gash hiding behind his ear.

“Thorin’s been asking for you” Balin said, dabbing gently at the wound with an ointment the smelt of upturned earth and crushed herbs. 

Bilbo lifted his head. “He’s alive?”

“For now,” Dwalin said, his voice pitched low. Balin frowned at him but Dwalin had turned his back, was gazing out towards the bloody remains of the battlefield.

“Will you see him?” Dwalin asked.

A laugh twisted in Bilbo’s throat, dry and prickling. “I have choice?”

Balin’s face turned soft. “We won’t drag you to him against your will.”

Bilbo pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, tasting dirt and blood.

“Where is he?” 

Dwalin walked him to Thorin’s tent, his hand a steady and guiding weight on his shoulder. There was a bit of snow on the ground, cool and soothing against the worn soles of Bilbo’s dirty feet. Had it truly snowed throughout the battle? Bilbo thought back on it but could remember nothing more than the clash of steel against steel, the stout bodies packed around him, the grotesque faces of orcs rushing in, blades held high, teeth gnashing and eyes wild. 

“Here,” Dwalin said, nodding towards a large tent with two dwarves standing vigil by the entrance. He paused for a moment, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, but he offered Bilbo no words of encouragement or luck. Instead he nodded, tightened his fingers against the delicate arch of Bilbo’s shoulder, and turned away without a parting glance.

Thorin was asleep when Bilbo entered his tent, laid out on a low, thin cot. Bilbo approached slowly, feeling as though a hazy fog had settled over him. He took in the sight of Thorin’s bruised face, the smear of browning blood at the messy corner of his mouth and the dirt caked into the lines of his brow. He watched as his own hand reached outwards, two fingers slipping beneath the edge of the blanket spread out across Thorin’s chest. Beneath it Thorin was bare but for the soiled bandages wrapped around his torso, the neat stitches peeking out at the edges. His stomach fluttered, his chest rising and falling in a slow, uneven rhythm. 

When he looked up again Thorin was blinking at him, crusted lashes fluttering against his cheeks. 

Bilbo dropped the blanket, took half a step backwards. Thorin shifted at his withdrawal, his arm rising from the cot. His movements were slow, weighed down and sluggish, and Bilbo didn’t pull away when his fingers came to fumble at the torn fabric of his sleeve. Thorin’s knuckles were raw and cracked. His rings were gone and two of his nails had been pulled out at the quick. 

“Don’t leave,” he said, so quietly that the words were nearly lost beneath the sound of the flap of the tent swaying in the wind.

“I—I’m not.” Bilbo touched Thorin’s wrist. His skin felt heated and clammy. “Let go?”

Thorin’s brows pulled together, but his expression held more pain than sorrow. His hand fell away, though perhaps it was only because he didn’t have the strength to hold it up any longer.

There was a pitcher of water and fresh bandages left on a low pedestal in the corner of the tent. Bilbo looked towards them, trying to ignore the sight of Thorin’s armour that had been pulled off piled into a heap close by, dirty and cracked and smeared with gore. 

“Are you thirsty?” Bilbo asked.

“Yes.”

It was a struggle. There were no glasses to be seen and Thorin had to drink straight from the pitcher. He pushed himself up onto his elbow, a hiss escaping through his teeth followed by low groan that rumbled in his throat. Bilbo slipped a hand behind his head, cradling the flat of his skull, and together they steadied the pitcher and tipped it against Thorin’s mouth.

Thorin eased back down onto the cot and started to cough, a wet sound that clogged in his chest. It left his lips damp and red, and Thorin ran his tongue over them before Bilbo could search for a towel. 

“I would ask for your forgiveness, Master Baggins.” Thorin pulled in a deep breath. It rattled in his lungs. “Beg for it, rather.”

“Thorin…” 

_Liar_ Thorin had called him, spitting the word like a curse. _Thief. Traitor._

“You were not yourself,” Bilbo said.

Thorin scoffed, turning his face away. His hair had been braided back for the battle but it was falling loose again, spilling over the pillow and sticking to the blood drying on his face and throat. Bilbo was nearly overcome with the desire to touch it, to brush it back from his brow and tease out the knots.

“So I was told,” Thorin said. “By Balin, Fili, _you_. I was blind, I—I was—”

“Sick,” Bilbo said. “You were sick.”

Thorin’s jaw hardened. “I thought I could overcome it.”

There was a small stool nearby and Bilbo dragged it forward, setting it close to the cot before sitting. It was low enough that he could have leaned forward and rested his head against Thorin’s side if he wanted to. The thought was almost appealing. Thorin was alive and warm and Bilbo could close his eyes and sleep and put an end to this muddled conversation. 

_How we must look together,_ Bilbo thought. Thorin, pale and weak and dying, and himself: worn and tired, an outsider that should have turned back towards home long ago.

“You should be angrier,” Thorin said. “I threatened to throw you off the mountain.”

“I did steal from you.”

“Those acts are not equal. You were trying to avoid war. Is that not what you told me?”

Bilbo shifted in his seat, the wood creaking beneath him softly. It was true that when he first tucked the arkenstone away into the safety of his pocket that he did so with Smaug’s taunts ringing in his ears, with the stories of Thorin’s father and grandfather playing out behind his eyes. But Bilbo also couldn’t deny that he had come to feel drawn to the arkenstone as the days moved on, that there were moments when he would slip his hand beneath his jacket and touch its cold, smooth surface and think _if I wanted to, I could sneak away. I could put on my ring and vanish and go back to the Shire and no one would know what I carry with me._

“Yes,” Bilbo said. “And I—I meant that, Thorin, it’s why I gave it to Bard, but…” Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek. His eyes stung. “It… it was a very beautiful stone.”

Thorin went quiet. Bilbo waited, hands twisting together on his lap. 

“The boys—” Thorin said, eyes focused on the canopy. “My nephews.” 

“Yes?”

“They—are they—?”

“They’re alive. Weren’t you told?”

Thorin’s gaze turned wary, unsure. 

“I was. But— have you seen them?”

Bilbo hadn’t. Balin assured him earlier that all of the Company survived, some with more injuries than others. Oin would likely lose an eye and Gloin had yet to wake and both Fili and Kili had been fiercely wounded while defending their uncle.

 _They’ll live,_ Balin had said. _Give them a month or two and they’ll already be boasting about the scars._

So Bilbo nodded, feeling only the slightest twitch of guilt at the lie. There were far worst things resting between him and Thorin, after all. 

The tension in Thorin’s body didn’t fade.

“I thought I’d led them to their deaths.” His voice wavered, the words nearly swallowed.

“You didn’t.” Bilbo tugged his stool closer, rested his folded hands on the edge of the cot. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you didn’t. They adore you, Thorin. They wanted to come.”

Thorin turned his head, his cheek sinking against the thin pillow. He stared for a moment before his eyes pinched shut, as if Bilbo had suddenly become too bright to look at. He pulled in a deep rasping breath and pressed a hand to his face, shoulders hitching upwards once, and then again. 

It took Bilbo a shamefully long moment to understand what was happening.

“Oh, no, stop, you can’t—”

“I can’t,” Thorin repeated, his voice a wet croak. “I am on my deathbed, and yet you tell me that I can’t.”

Bilbo took Thorin’s free hand between both of his own, rubbing a slow circle into his open palm to hide his shaking fingers.

“Don’t die,” Bilbo said. “Please.”

Thorin made a sound, like a choked off laugh or sob. Bilbo closed his eyes, swallowing.

He tried again. “If you live, I’ll accept your apology.”

Thorin lowered his fingers, then, leaving them splayed over his nose and mouth. His eyes were red-rimmed and shining. “An unfair bargain, Master Baggins, wagering with something beyond my control.”

“Fair point,” Bilbo said. “I suppose I might just accept it all the same. But you—you have to try, Thorin. To stay.”

“Will you?” Thorin said. “Stay?”

“Are you asking me to?”

“I… want you to. I would not permit myself to ask for it.”

Bilbo drew his thumb up along a thin bone in Thorin’s wrist, over the back of his fingers.

“Until you’re well,” he said. “I’ll stay until you’re well.”

 

 

Thorin departs for his halls long before the night is over and Bilbo can only bring himself to wait a quarter of an hour more before taking a deep breath and going after him. The guard standing at the entrance to Thorin’s rooms raises an eyebrow at Bilbo as he approaches, and Bilbo takes care to keep his pace steady, to lift his chin a little higher, to act like he belongs. He’s not sure what he would do if the dwarf tries to deny him entrance. Double back and slip on his ring, he supposes, though he’s had quite enough of slinking around Erebor like a thief, thank you.

But the dwarf makes no complaint, only shifts his weight and takes to tracking Bilbo with his eyes as he wanders by, a bemused look falling over his face when Bilbo wishes him a good evening. 

Bilbo finds Thorin in his sitting room, standing by the hearth with one hand folded behind his back and the other cradling a pipe at his mouth. His crown is gone, his hair tussled by its removal, but his heavy armour and fine clothes remain.

The room is still mostly bare, and Bilbo suspects Thorin has been using it for working as much as relaxing. There is a thick rug on the ground and a single chair pulled close to the fire, but against the far wall sits a desk that’s been littered with sheets of parchment, a half-empty inkwell and a stained quill.

Bilbo clears his throat, and Thorin turns to him, smoke spilling from his mouth and dissipating around his head.

“Master Baggins.”

“At your service,” Bilbo says. He’s aiming for humour but the words sit awkwardly in his mouth and fall flat off his tongue. He doesn’t know if he should be addressing Thorin differently now, if there was supposed to be a _your highness_ tagged onto the end of that sentence. 

Bilbo decides to compromise, offering Thorin a shallow bow and lowering his eyes. The gesture makes Thorin set down his pipe, makes him step forward and reach for Bilbo with a large hand that hovers over his shoulder but doesn’t touch. 

“Don’t,” Thorin says. He clears his throat and drops his arm before he continues. “I would not think of asking you to kneel before me.”

“But I wasn’t kneeling,” Bilbo says, straightening his spine. He catches a quick glimpse of Thorin’s troubled frown before the lines fade.

“Your face is flushed,” Thorin says. He tilts his head, a braid falling over his shoulder and swinging against his cheek. There are more of them in his hair than usual, each tied off with a darkly colored bead. “Dwalin said he would see you drunk tonight.”

Bilbo scowls. “Well that explains some things. And I’m not drunk.”

It’s a true enough reply. Bilbo feels only a little hazy. 

Thorin’s lips thin and pull, as though he’s fighting back a smile. “No?”

Bilbo scoffs and frowns, makes a show of tilting his head back and squinting up at Thorin’s face. His eyes are bright and the tips of his ears are red, and he’s still biting back a smile that doesn’t seem to belong on his mouth.

“ _You’re_ drunk,” Bilbo says.

Thorin lifts an eyebrow. His arms shift, as if he means to cross them, but the armour is too awkward and he gives up halfway though the motion. He begins to pluck at his gloves instead, fumbling with the latches at his wrists.

“I can hold my mead quite well, Halfling.”

“That’s not what Kili says—oh, here.”

Bilbo reaches up, unbidden, finding the pins that seal Thorin’s gauntlets to his metal plated forearms by touch. 

“You trust Kili’s word more than my own?” Thorin asks. His eyes are focused on Bilbo’s hands, the nimble fingers setting him free.

“That really has nothing to do with anything,” Bilbo says. He yanks the glove off and nearly drops it not a moment later.

“Heavy,” he mumbles, setting it aside.

Thorin hums. “They were my Father’s. Balin found them.”

His voice is soft but not sad, so Bilbo thinks it’s all right to comment on that.

“They’re a little large for you.”

“Room to grow,” Thorin says. He sounds pleased, like that’s just how things should be.

Bilbo drags the second gauntlet away, holding tight this time. It surprises him when Thorin then lowers himself awkwardly to his knees.

“There are more,” he says, reaching up, pointing towards his shoulder. “I can’t reach them.”

“How did you ever get this on?”

“With a great deal of help.”

“It’s a little extravagant,” Bilbo says. The pin holds tight beneath his fingers. He wedges his fingers beneath the plate, pulls hard enough to make Thorin sway.

“It’s ceremonial. Symbolic.”

The pins loosen, and Bilbo pulls them out before moving on to Thorin’s other shoulder.

“I hope for your sake there won’t be a need for you to dress symbolically on a regular basis.”

Thorin makes an amused sound, not quite a laugh but perhaps resembling one just close enough to count. Bilbo risks a glance at his face, and Thorin meets his gaze with a curious one of his own, eyebrows lifting. His cheeks are still ruddy but his eyes are clear and focused, and the simple explanation to his soft, pleased expression strikes Bilbo so suddenly he almost feels embarrassed for not having realized earlier.

Thorin isn’t drunk at all. He’s happy.

Bilbo has seen Thorin caught in the throes of victory with a wild grin locked to the shape of his mouth, has seen him settled with relief and sigh into relaxation, but this is a different kind of a contentment, it’s weightless and free and entirely unfamiliar.

The final pin gives beneath Bilbo’s fingers, and the second gardblace lifts free.

“Did you wish to speak to me on some matter?” Bilbo asks. “Or am I merely here for company?”

Thorin tilts his head. The fire is burning low and needs to be stoked, and a long shadow falls over his face. “Would that be an unreasonable request?”

“No,” Bilbo says, the word leaving his mouth before he has time to even think on the answer. “No, of course it wouldn’t.”

Bilbo drops his arms back to his side, clearing his throat, but Thorin doesn’t rise.

“Gandalf has left,” he says.

“He has.”

“Without you.”

“Also true.”

Thorin’s lips press into a thin line, whitening slightly. Bilbo thinks he should try to avoid evoking that look more often than he does. 

“You said that you wanted me to stay,” Bilbo says. 

“I do,” Thorin says. “And you did. But you’re not bound to that decision, Bilbo. Ask and I will have a party ready by morning to escort you home.”

“Not yet,” Bilbo says, the words coming from him in a rush. “I mean, I don’t—I don’t know how long I…”

And maybe he is drunk, because that sentence should be easy enough to finish but Bilbo finds that he has no idea how it ends.

“The offer won’t expire,” Thorin promises. He drops his hands to his knees and pushes himself back up. It takes only a moment for him to shrug off his cloak and pull away his breastplate. They’re laid out along with the rest of his armour on a table to be cleaned later. Thorin hovers there for a long moment, fiddling with nothing that requires to be fiddled with, in Bilbo’s opinion.

“Thorin?”

Thorin turns back to him. He seems smaller now, with his layers gone.

“I’m glad that you will remain, for a time, but your presence is a gift I don’t deserve.” 

“I forgave you.”

“You thought I was dying.”

Bilbo resists the urge to sigh, to pinch his fingers into the corners of his eyes. “Thorin, you _were_ dying.”

“Had circumstances been different, had I come to you as I am now—”

Bilbo shifts his weight. If Thorin had escaped the battle unharmed, if Bilbo had gone to him and found him whole and healthy and strong, there’s little doubt in his mind that he would have met the dwarf with anger. He would have turned away and gone home and allowed things between them to wither and die. Years later he may have come to regret his decision, but never would there be the opportunity to make things right, to allow Thorin the chance to regain Bilbo’s trust. 

“Circumstances were what they were,” Bilbo says, voice firm. “And we have put each other through enough, I think. I forgave you. _Forgive_ you. I’m not going to take it back or—or be bullied into changing my mind.”

Thorin’s shoulders fall. He looks oddly defeated, slumping into the armchair by the fire.

“I’m not trying to bully you,” he says, and Bilbo does sigh at that.

“I know.”

It’s strange, how expressive Thorin has become to Bilbo’s eyes. Throughout the first three months of their journey Bilbo had thought Thorin incapable doing anything more impressive than scowling. The first time Bilbo caught Thorin laughing he felt as though he was invading on something intensely private, even if Thorin had only been chucking at some comment Dwalin had made. Thorin’s face had hardened the moment he realized Bilbo was watching them, immediately on guard and seeming almost angry with himself for having drawn the hobbit’s attention.

Presently, Thorin looks tired, looks worn down in a way that only steals over him when he’s worried or sad. It’s such a stark contrast to the sly grin he offered Bilbo while dancing that Bilbo finds himself nudging at his elbow just to startle him out of it.

“You worry too much,” Bilbo says. “It’s unhealthy.” 

Thorin snorts, his left shoulder hitching upwards into a shrug.

“It can’t be helped. There's always been something to worry about.”

“Well, maybe there’ll be less, now.”

“Aye,” Thorin says, looking into the fire. He curls his fist beneath his jaw. “Maybe.”

Bilbo is sure that there was a time not long ago when he would have permitted himself to sit on the arm of Thorin’s chair without bothering to ask permission, to pick up Thorin's forgotten pipe and help himself to his tobacco. But whatever familiarity that had allowed them to share a drink from the same mug earlier has waned –not vanished, Bilbo thinks (he _hopes_ ) but tucked away for another time. 

He wishes Thorin goodnight and exits the room, a strange mixture of unease and resolve settling over him, growing only more tangled with each step he takes.


	2. Chapter 2

It started long before Bilbo made anything of it, with Thorin’s heated gaze and lingering touches, his breath turning sharp and shallow in his chest whenever Bilbo stood close against his side. It started with Bilbo watching as Thorin shrugged off his soiled undershirt by a stream, fixated on the gleaming line of sweat between his shoulder blades, the shift of bone and muscle beneath his pale skin.

It only happened once.

They had been sitting together on watch, separated from the sleeping Company by a cluster of trees and spiny bushes. Bilbo was talking about his garden, of the lilies he once planted with this mother, the sunflowers he decided to line the back of his flowerbed with the year before. Thorin was listening politely but not intently, and it made Bilbo want to reel in his attention, to make him understand why it was important, to explain the simple joy that came with working in the dirt with the sun warming the back of your neck, the accomplishment of coaxing something into growing tall and living. 

He can’t remember exactly what it was that he had said, but it caused Thorin to smile at him, a small and lopsided quirk of his lips that helped to soothe the lines on his face.

“You are a strange creature, Master Baggins,” he told him.

“Oh,” Bilbo said.

“It is not a bad thing,” Thorin added, bumping his knee against Bilbo’s and leaving it there.

Bilbo looked down. He’d seen Thorin’s bare arms before but never his legs, and found himself picturing what his naked thigh might look like, strong and muscled and dappled with curling dark hair. The image shouldn’t have been appealing, not to a hobbit that was far more accustomed to softer bodies and leaner limbs, but Bilbo’s mouth turned dry at the thought, heat prickling at this throat and blooming over his ears and cheeks. 

“What else isn’t bad about me?” He asked, not daring to look away from the dark span of the woods. 

The press of Thorin’s knee grew bolder as he shifted close, his hair skimming along Bilbo’s shoulder and neck. 

“I can think of many things,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble on the night air. 

Bilbo turned his head, looking at Thorin’s mouth instead of his eyes. It was a simple matter from there, tipping up his chin and straightening his spine in order to close the gap between them.

Throughout the journey Bilbo had never longed for his bed more than in that moment when Thorin laid him down and pressed him to the forest floor. Dried grass scratched at the back of his calves and leaves crunched beneath his head. Later, Thorin would comb dead vegetation out from Bilbo’s curls with his fingers, nails scratching lightly against his scalp.

Bilbo turned his face away from Thorin’s, lips breaking free with a wet sound.

“Ah, wait, this isn’t—”

Thorin went still, hands flat against the soil on either side of Bilbo’s head, eyes wide and questioning. Bilbo wiggled beneath him, scrunching up his nose as he reached around to pull a jagged stone out from behind the small of his back.

Thorin blinked before he laughed, his smile bright and wide and quickly hidden away by a raised hand. The gesture was simple and small and yet it drew forward a sharp ache from Bilbo’s chest, the image of Thorin covering his grin, hiding a sense of humour that was so rarely shown to begin with.

He took the stone from Bilbo’s fingers, tossing it over his shoulder.

“Here,” he said. Thorin shrugged off his heavy fur cloak and laid it out onto the ground next to them, still chuckling lowly beneath his breath. It was a strange sound, new and unfamiliar, but Bilbo found that he liked it, thought that he could easily grow fond of it if only he heard it more often. He rolled onto the cloak and looped his arms around Thorin’s neck as the dwarf followed him over, arching up to steal another kiss before Thorin’s mouth lost the shape of his smile.

Thorin bowed over Bilbo, mouth against his, elbow digging into the dirt. He nudged Bilbo’s legs apart with his knee, fumbling blindly at his waist for a belt or button before he suddenly flinched and drew back, leaving Bilbo cold.

“Is this—?” Thorin sounded nothing like himself, breathless and wary. “Can I…?”

A giggle bubbled over Bilbo’s lips.

“Yes,” he said, spreading his legs further to emphasize the point. “Yes, of _course_ yes you daft dwarf, just—”

“Daft, is it?” It was difficult to see Thorin’s expression in the dark, but a smile had returned to his voice and when a shaft of silver moonlight flickered over his eyes Bilbo noticed deep lines stemming out from their edges. 

Thorin palmed the bulge at the front of Bilbo’s trousers, cupping and rolling Bilbo’s sack in his hand.

“Very,” Bilbo said, licking his lips. “Completely, utterly daft— _oh_ , please, just…” 

“Hush,” Thorin told him, mouth drifting along his jaw before he dipped his head low, sucking a bruise into the fluttering hollow of Bilbo’s throat. 

Neither of them took the time to fully undress. Bilbo’s trousers were pushed off and tossed aside and Thorin only bothered in unlacing his own. He pinned Bilbo to the ground and grinded them together, fisting both of their cocks in his wide, open palm. His other hand was tucked beneath Bilbo’s head, fingers alternating between squeezing the back of his neck and dragging through his hair. Bilbo was caught snugly beneath him, heels digging into the backs of Thorin’s knees, trying to lift his hips. He didn’t have nearly enough leverage and in the end could only writhe and moan and beg for more that Thorin was slow to give. 

Bilbo didn’t mind. He reveled in his submission, a new kind of heat burning through him when he noticed the intensity of Thorin’s gaze, the gasping breaths he took as he watched Bilbo twist against the ground.

And so Bilbo preformed, allowed his eyelashes to flutter and for his teeth to skim across his bottom lip, throwing back his head as he was stroked and petted by Thorin’s long fingers until his pleasure peaked and spilled over. 

Afterwards, he felt sated and shameless, proud of the flush he’d brought to Thorin’s damp throat, the soft haze clouding over his eyes. He nudged at Thorin with his legs until he lied down next to him, scooting close for warmth. Thorin drew the pad of his thumb along Bilbo’s cheek, eyes half-lidded, dark lashes drifting open and then shut as sleep dragged him down. 

There was never a chance for anything more.

There were moments when Bilbo would touch the back of Thorin’s hand, when Thorin would allow their elbows to meet when they sat down beside each other. There was even one particularly pleasant encounter that consisted of Thorin hauling Bilbo behind the shelter of a great tree and pressing him up against the trunk, kissing him deeply as his hand pulled the hem of Bilbo’s shirt free from his trousers.

They were interrupted by Kili, stomping through the woods and calling for his uncle in the distance.

Thorin made a pained sound as he sighed against Bilbo’s lips, his own mouth hardening before he pulled away.

“Later, perhaps,” he said.

But time was short and the need to move forward was too dire to be ignored. In the rare moments of peace they found the Company proved difficult to hide away from or Thorin’s mood too dark to break, his gaze troubled and turned inward.

And then there had been Mirkwood, the cloying air of the forest that drove the Company into a dazed stupor. There had been spiders and elves and the chaos of escape, sneaking into Laketown and huddling within the cramped walls of Bard’s home. 

_It’s fine,_ Bilbo told himself, ignoring the sinking feeling that weighed in his stomach. He watched, unnoticed, as Thorin starred out of Bard’s dirty window, eyes fixed upon the mountain that pierced upwards from the flat horizon. Bilbo curled his hands around his warm mug of tea, breathing in steam as remembered the low sound of Thorin’s laughter, the rough drag of his calloused fingers again Bilbo’s soft skin. _It could have been much less, after all._

 

 

There are mornings when Bilbo forgets where he is, when he opens his eyes and expects to be greeted by the sight of his cluttered books or bright round window, tucked warmly beneath the giant quilt his mother made for him when he was a child.

This is not one of those mornings.

“Yes, yes, just wait a moment!” Bilbo fumbles with his robe, missing the sleeve twice before he succeeds in pushing his arm through. The pounding at his door doesn’t cease and Bilbo is setting his teeth, dragging a hand back through his mused hair, trying to remind himself that snapping at whoever stands waiting for him in the hallway would be terrible behavior from a guest to the line of Durin. Given the blunt manner of dwarves this is likely deemed to be an entirely appropriate wakeup call, after all.

His opinion on that matter changes somewhat when he opens the door and finds Fili standing behind it.

“Oh,” Fili says, his arm still upright, fist tilted back and halted mid-knock. “Good, you’re awake.”

Bilbo moves to shut the door. Fili shoves his booted foot forward to act as a stopper.

“That’s a terrible way to treat your host, Bilbo.”

“Thorin is my host.”

“The heir of your host, then.”

Bilbo closes his eyes, allows himself to slope forward until he can rest his brow against the cold smooth stone of the archway.

“You and your brother may very well be the death of me.”

“Oh, I doubt that. You seemed to have fun with Kili last night.”

Bilbo pulls a face. Fili wiggles out a little more space between the door and its frame with his foot, reaching through the gap to nudge at Bilbo’s shoulder.

“A little,” he says.

“A little,” Bilbo agrees with a sigh, rubbing a knuckle into his eye as he fights back a yawn. “Now, are you going to tell me why you’re waking me up?”

“Mum wants you to have breakfast with us.”

“Us?”

“Don’t worry, it won’t be like last night.” Fili’s flashes Bilbo a smile, the bright and open one he likes to use when he’s trying to get his way with something. “Much smaller. Just family, and, well, you.”

“Oh.” Bilbo scratches at the back of his neck, unsure of what he should be taking away from that. “Is that okay?” 

“You’re invited, so I don’t see why it wouldn’t be.”

“I haven’t washed yet.”

“You don’t smell, I promise. Go on, I’ll wait for you.”

Fili steps away, making a shooing gesture. Bilbo resists the temptation to return it with a rather rude gesture of his own before shutting the door between them.

The clothes Bilbo’s been given are stored in a cedar chest that rests at the foot of his bed, so large and deep that Bilbo nearly toppled into it the first time he reached for an undershirt. It’s been beautifully crafted, cut to fit the shapes of wolves and prancing elks, of eagles with their wings spread wide and dwarven warriors with thick beards hanging down to their waists. Bilbo follows the geometric design along the surface of the lid before lifting it up, inhaling the scent of bark and pine billowing beneath. It stirs up thoughts of the Shire, of the long treks he once took through a damp forest, dressed in a fine button-down jacket, dirt on his feet and twigs snapping beneath his heels, a walking stick clasped firmly in his hand.

Bilbo removes Sting from where it rests atop his folded clothes, setting it against the bed. He hesitates before drawing it from the sheath, just enough to see the bright gleam of metal, rubbing his thumb against the flat of the blade. His mithril shirt follows next, flowing over his hands like water even as it glints in the candlelight as though it were weaved from crushed diamonds.

To think that a year ago he would have laughed at the very idea of it —trading a perfectly good walking stick in for a sword, his fitted jacket and burnished buttons replaced with priceless chainmail gifted to him by a king.

Bilbo picks out a dark green tunic to wear, fiddling with the matching belt for a moment before pulling it snugly against his waist, still a little too thin for his liking after months of travel and stress. The only leggings Bilbo’s been given are long enough to brush against the hair on his feet, and he frowns down at them after slipping them on, shifting his weight and wiggling his hips, trying to grow used to the feeling of material flapping against his calves and ankles. After a quick moment of debate he bends down, rolling the fabric up to his knees and hoping that a dwarf won’t see fit to point out the change. 

He allows himself a moment to rush off to the bathroom, pouring water into a stone basin and splashing it over his face, sparring a quick glance at himself in the polished looking glass. His hair is ruffled from sleep, curlier on one side of his head than it is on the other. But his eyes are bright and there’s colour on his cheeks and Bilbo thinks he must had looked far worse while traveling on the road anyways.

It’s a silly thing to fret over, as Bilbo is sure his appearance is odd to the eyes of dwarves no matter what he does, but Bilbo’s mother had always been insistent that he look his best when leaving the house and Bilbo has never quite been able to shake the habit. It’s a memory that Bilbo is fond of, returning home at the end of the day with dirt on his face and grass stains on his shirt, only to be swept up into his mother’s arms and asked how his day was. The following morning she would send him out the door as well dressed as ever, unconcerned that Bilbo may just well ruin the neat pants or fine shirt she’d placed him in.

Fili is leaning against the opposite wall when Bilbo emerges. He’s quick to step forward and offer Bilbo his arm, snorting when Bilbo scoffs and pushes by him.

“Wait, it’s this way,” Fili says, tilting his head towards a barren hallway that Bilbo’s has not yet had the chance to explore.

Bilbo frowns. “But—”

“See, this is why you should have taken my arm,” Fili says, touching two fingers to Bilbo’s shoulder, digging them in until he turns down the corridor and then the one after that as well. From there he leads Bilbo up a winding staircase that narrows and darkens as they climb.

“Fili.”

“Mm?”

“Where is breakfast being held, exactly?”

“In Thorin’s halls.”

“And we’re going… where?”

“This is just a detour, won’t take more than a moment.”

They meet no one as they ascend. Up and up they walk, until Bilbo’s legs begin to feel stiff and his breath starts to escape from his lungs in quick wheezing puffs. After a time Bilbo notices the rising howl of the wind rushing over stone and the scent of pine drifting on the air, and just as he opens his mouth to ask Fili again where they’re going, he rounds the next bend and is forced to flinch away from the sudden flash of daylight exploding into the tunnel. 

Fili laughs at his reaction, apologizing for the lack of warning as he leads Bilbo through the open doorway at the top of the stairs and into the sun. Bilbo blinks the spots from his eyes and finds himself standing on the exposed rooftop of one of Erebor’s high towers. The stone beneath his feet is rougher here, weather worn and eroded by wind and rain, and there are ravens spotted along the low covering above the door and roosting in the turrets. 

Fili whistles and a few of the birds look towards him, heads twitching back and forth. One shuffles its wings before fluttering over, landing on Fili’s outstretched arm.

“There’s a good girl,” he says, offering it seed from a pouch on his hip before digging a sealed roll of parchment out from his pocket.

Bilbo hovers close to the doorway, crossing his arms and watching Fili quietly, carefully trying to avoid the spots of mess on the floor. A crow appears on the crooked post standing next to him, squawking, and it nips lightly at Bilbo’s finger when he holds out his hand to touch it.

“All done,” Fili says, coming back towards him, the bird lifting up into the sky overhead. Bilbo can just make out the small leather binding on its leg, positive that if he had the opportunity to look closer he would find it marked with the anvil of Durin.

“Very nice of you,” Bilbo says. “Doing that for your brother.”

To Fili’s credit no change comes over his face. He tilts his head as if perplexed, the light of the rising sun glinting against the beads in his hair.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“And clever, bringing me along. Anyone would think you’re just showing me how to send a message out to one of my relatives back home.”

Fili blinks at him, once and then again. He shifts his weight, lips twisting, looking as though he can’t decide if he should be feeling ashamed or proud. “That is what I’m going to say if asked, yes.”

“You could have just told me.”

Kili is the brother than tends to fidget when put on the spot, yet now it’s Fili that continues to do so. He runs his fingers over his braided moustache, scratches at his beard and looks down at his boots before lifting his eyes to Bilbo’s. 

“I could have.” He says. He glances around the area, takes a moment to walk towards the doorway, peeking around the corner and down the stairs.

“He’s writing to that elf,” Fili says quietly, turning back. “You knew that?”

“I had an inkling when you insisted on being secretive over the affair of sending out a simple letter.”

Bilbo only means to tease, to draw a lighter response from Fili, perhaps some comment on the bold audacity of hobbits, but instead Fili’s expression turns stone, his jaw clenching, and Bilbo is momentarily struck by how much he resembles Thorin. 

“No one can know,” Fili says.

“Fili, four months ago your people were fighting alongside the elves.”

“Out of necessity. There are dwarves here who disagree with even that. If it was found out that Kili… that he was friends with one…” 

“Does it truly matter? Thorin is king.”

“And the mountain is occupied with Dain’s soldiers and lords.”

“Oh, really now. You’re inheriting your uncle’s paranoia, Fili.”

The words are spoken thoughtlessly and Bilbo regrets them the moment they leave his mouth. All colour drains from Fili’s face and he looks as though he’s been slapped before something sharpens behind his eyes. His posture shifts, shoulders hardening as his spine locks, and Bilbo has seen Fili irritated, has seen him upset and fuming, but never has Bilbo encountered him like this: infuriated and all but shaking with rage.

“Fili, I didn’t mean—”

“Thorin is not crazy,” Fili hisses, stepping forward, his fingers twitching at his sides. “And I am no fool. You did not see it, Bilbo, how the dwarves of the Ironhills waited for his death, how Dain’s commanders whispered and prepared for what would come after my uncle _expired_.” Fili all but spits the word out, and Bilbo wonders what dwarf was foolish enough to first speak it in his presence. “Even if Dain denied the throne there would still be a push for him to take it. He is a good ruler with dwarves at his side that would lie down and die if he ordered them to, and what am I but a sheltered brat from the Blue Mountains?”

Fili looks away, cheeks burning red, though be it from fury or a strange misplacement of shame Bilbo doesn’t know. 

“It’s not paranoia,” he continues. “There are plenty here that undoubtedly think it would have been better if Thorin and his heirs fell in battle. Not all of them, I know, but enough. We don’t need a scandal surrounding Kili while everything is still so… new.”

Fili’s falls quiet, breathing hard, and it takes Bilbo a long moment to summon up anything to say, guilt gnawing at him from the inside out. 

Bilbo has spent the last few months mostly in the presence of healers and Gandalf. There had been so many injured in battle and so few capable of helping that Bilbo found himself applying bandages and stitches to wounded dwarves and men and even elves when he had not been hovering at Thorin’s bedside. Whenever he was able he acted as Thorin’s runner, delivering messages to Balin or Fili or Dis after she arrived, but not once did he dare to try and peek at the scraps of parchment handed off to him, nor did the dwarves in the sick tents offer much in the way of gossip. It’s true that he knows little of the state of politics in Erebor, and yet it dawns on him that he was unwise to think that Thorin’s rule would go unchallenged. The knowledge of his sickness must be know to some, and there is so much promise to be found in the mountain, resources and shelter and a hoard of wealth that remains largely unclaimed. 

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo says. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Fili deflates, his rage waning just as quickly as it had been stirred. He draws the back of his hand over his brow and he lifts the other to rest on the jut of his hip.

“You didn’t know.”

“Even so. I don’t— I don’t believe that Thorin is mad. That’s not what I meant. Nor do I think you foolish.”

Fili nods. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I just… I’ve been a little stressed.” He smiles, a small and wavering thing. “Shouldn’t complain though, should I? Can’t imagine how Thorin’s been managing it all.” 

“I’m not sure if Thorin could even answer that himself,” Bilbo says slowly, the image of Thorin’s fire-lit profile from the night before lingering behind his eyes, and Fili huffs out a laugh.

Bilbo looks to the sky, the birds circling overheard, nothing more than dark shapes against the wispy clouds. He waits for the ugly twisting in his stomach to subside before saying, “I think you should actually teach me how to send a raven off to the Shire at some point. I suppose I should let my relatives know I’m still alive. It might even deter them from making off with the remains of my silverware.”

They venture back into the mountain together, walking side by side, the silence between them unwavering but comfortable. There are more dwarves about when they descend from the staircase, many looking tired and still weary from drink. They pause and bow to Fili as he passes, and a few even offer a nod to Bilbo before continuing on their way.

“The prince returns at last,” Dwalin says when they arrive, lifting a bushy eyebrow. The table he sits at his long and wide and only a portion of it is actually being put to use. Balin sits to his left and, to Bilbo’s surprise, Oin to his right. Dis and Kili are across from them, and Bilbo notes with smothered disappointment that the head of the table remains unoccupied.

“I didn’t hear him knocking for some time,” Bilbo blurts out quickly, not missing the meaningful glance that Kili shoots towards his brother, the shadow of a nod Fili offers in return.

Dwalin grunts, reaching for a plate of sausages, but Balin tips his head and strokes a hand down his beard, humming softly as he looks at Bilbo with a friendly expression that seems more like a mask than anything else.

Bilbo is quick to rush on before the questions come.

“I didn’t know you were of Durin’s line,” he says, turning to Oin. Oin swivels his ear trumpet in his direction, nodding. There is a thick bandage wound over his eye, but he looks well besides.

“Cousins,” he says. “My brother would be here, but his wife and son arrived early this morning.”

“Oh!” Bilbo says. Gloin had gone on at length about his wife on the journey, telling Bilbo many times that once the hobbit saw her he would never again doubt the beauty of a stout dwarf woman. “Well, he must be very pleased indeed then!”

Dwalin snorts as Oin rolls his remaining eye.

“To put it lightly,” he says. “If there wasn’t work to be done I doubt we would see him again until the week is finished.”

“You will like Leta, Master Baggins,” Dis cuts in, her voice a tad louder than necessary. “Gimli too, I’m sure. Here, come sit with me. Would you like some tea?”

“I would, thank you,” Bilbo says, all too glad to leave that particular line of conversation behind him. 

Bilbo has long heard tales of dwarven women being nearly indistinguishable from the men, but has come to believe that such stories are mostly exaggerated. It’s true that there are many maidens about with thick, full beards, but he has seen others with only a soft dusting of stubble on their cheeks, with bare chins and hair that grows only along the line of their jaws.

Dis is of the latter sort. She’s more handsome than she is beautiful, but there’s a softness to her face, a delicacy to her cheekbones and thin nose. She looks very much like Thorin, though her hair has yet to grey and falls over he shoulders like a long sheet of silk. She wears a strange piercing centered just below her lip, a small blue jewel that winks in the light. It’s a strange ornament and Bilbo cannot imagine a woman in the Shire daring to wear one, but he finds himself thinking that it suits Dis quite well. 

Bilbo is sure that his gaze doesn’t wander again to Thorin’s empty seat as he fills his plate, but Dis seems to notice his distraction all the same.

“My brother and cousin will join us shortly,” she says. Bilbo looks at her quickly, but Dis’ smile is kind and quickly puts him at ease. “Dain wanted observe the progress being made on the repairs to the main gate, and Thorin was insistent on joining him.”

Something changes in her tone, a soft lilt coming to her voice, as though she believes that Thorin is doing something silly but expected. She sets her tea aside and looks to Bilbo again. Her brown eyes are lined with dark kohl, making them appear sharp and nearly cat-like. 

“I’m sure that I can serve as just fine company until then. Will you tell me of your home?”

Bilbo nods, perhaps a little too eagerly. “I’d like that very much, though I’m not sure you’ll find it very intresting.”

“I don’t see why that would be true at all.”

And so Bilbo talks. He tells Dis of the house he grew up in, built by his father as a wedding gift to his mother. He tells her of his round green door and blooming garden, the gnarled oak tree that grows on top of his hill and the acorns he has to sweep off his front law every morning in the fall. He tells her of green fields and sun-dappled forests, the rain that sometimes lasts for days. He describes Hobbiton’s springtime festivals, the crowns children weave from flowers and push into the hands of those they admire. 

“I know it must sound dull, compared to all this—”

“It sounds lovely,” Dis says. She’s resting her chin atop her folded hands, plate pushed aside, elbows on the table. “Peaceful. You must miss it dearly.”

Bilbo considers that, spearing a cheery-tomato with the tines of his fork. His desire for home comes to him like a wave licking at the shore, periodically breaking against Bilbo before receding. He is beginning to suspect that returning to the Shire may not quell his pining, but shift it instead, cause him to look back on his adventure with a hollow longing for more, to yearn for dwarven songs and food, for bawdy but warm company and unexpected friends. 

“I do,” Bilbo settles on, because it’s not a lie and yet much simpler to speak than the truth. “I nearly turned back once, were you told?”

“Mm. Thorin mentioned that. I’m thankful you decided otherwise. I’ve heard that my brother would not have lived to see Erebor again had it not been for you.”

Bilbo clears his throat, waving his hand at her. “If you’re referring to the orcs, I think the eagles deserve more credit than I do.” 

Dis shrugs. “Little good the eagles would have done, saving a dwarf without a head.”

She pauses at that, taking a moment to draw a sip of watered down wine from her cup. Her hands don’t tremble, nor do her lips, but Bilbo knows how Thror died, knows that Thorin returned to his sister alone and left her again years later with her sons by his side. 

He’s been told that Dis arrived at the mountain on the back of mule, that when one of Dain’s soldiers did not recognize her and tried to block her path she threw back her hood and ripped his own axe from his hands, told him to go and fetch her cousin before she became tempted to make use of it.

She only wept after greeting her sons, and that is how Bilbo came to meet her. Stumbling into her on his way to the next sick tent.

 _You must be Bilbo Baggins,_ she said, rubbing her palms over her flushed cheeks. _My sons spoke of you._

And Bilbo had sputtered and fidgeted, patting himself down for a handkerchief that he didn’t have. Dis smiled softly, bowing her head, raising a hand and asking Bilbo if he would be kind enough to help her up.

There is the sound of booted feet on the floor, of low voices venturing close from down the hall. Dis’ warm eyes flicker back towards Bilbo, lightening as she smiles. She lifts he voice when she speaks again. “Not that my darling brother cares to _use_ his head nearly enough, in my opinion.”

She tips up her chin, eyebrows lifting, urging Bilbo to look, and he glances over his shoulder just in time to catch the flat expression that has fallen over Thorin’s face as he enters the room, the twitching smile that Dain can’t seem to hide.

“Always so kind, sister,” Thorin murmurs, expression turning somehow all the more stony when Dain punches his arm before moving around the table. 

Thorin goes the opposite direction, pausing behind Dis’ chair.

“Do not trust what Dis tells you, Master Baggins. Her stories are all terribly exaggerated.”

“Oh, there are stories?” Bilbo says, sounding completely delighted. Thorin sighs, shoulders falling as Dis starts to laugh.

From there conversation quickly turns towards Erebor. Thorin had delegated many tasks to Dain and his sister while lying on his sickbed in order to make the mountain stable again, but even though dwarves have been occupying it for weeks now it seems that Erebor is still hardly fit to be lived in to hear how those at the table speak of it. Bilbo listens more than he comments, picking at the remains of his food and trying to catch sight of Thorin as discreetly as he can without making it look as though he’s staring.

The crown that Thorin wears is simpler than the one he been bestowed with the night before, a thin band of twisted metal set with polished white stones. His armour too has been replaced with more practical clothes, though the furs are still thick and the material finely woven. Even so, Thorin seems drained to Bilbo, blinking often and slowly slouching down into his seat before he catches himself and straightens back up. Undoubtedly Bilbo has seen him far more exhausted before, though he’d rather shy away from those memories. Sleep had begun to elude Thorin as sickness crept upon him, and Bilbo can still clearly picture Thorin’s slacken and weary face, his vacant eyes staring out across the hoard, sliding over the Company without truly seeing them.

 _You’re being ridiculous,_ Bilbo tells himself, looking down at his empty plate. _He didn’t sleep well last night. That’s all there is to it_. 

“There’s been much talk about the main gate,” Dain is saying. Thorin eats a slice of apple, and Bilbo tries not to stare at the way his fingers drag along his bottom lip when he takes the fruit into his mouth.

“Progress has been well,” Thorin says, lifting an eyebrow. “You saw yourself: it’s nearly finished.”

“But Erebor’s stone guardians still lie in ruins.”

Bilbo frowns, but Kili mouths the word _statues_ to him from across the table and he remembers the towering figures carved into the roots of the mountain. He thinks back to the statue of Durin and supposes that such crafts must mean a great deal to dwarves. Perhaps they see it as a kind homage, cutting images of themselves from stone as Aule did to them.

“Cosmetic,” Thorin says, waving his hand at his cousin. “I will not have time and resources put into sculptures when vital parts of Erebor still crumble and remain unusable.”

Dain nods, the tip of his head gracious, as if supplementing for a bow. 

“Understandable, cousin. I only offer you a word of warning. I have found many times that no matter how necessary the decision there will be voices crying out against it. Perhaps not many, but the volume can be shockingly loud.”

Thorin’s shoulder tense, but he nods stiffly and doesn’t dismiss Dain’s advice. Dis sighs, the sound of it exasperated rather than relieved, and not for the first time Bilbo is left to wonder just what kind of relationship exists between Thorin and the Lord of the Ironhills. 

“Can I help with anything?” Bilbo asks.

The conversation halts abruptly as the attention of every dwarf in the room seems to turn towards him. 

“You are our guest, Master Baggins,” Balin says. “You helped us reclaim the mountain. You have no obligation in working towards rebuilding it.”

“Yes, that’s all well and good,” Bilbo says, clearing his throat. He casts a quick look towards Fili, thinking of his anger, of his shaking voice and hands. “But while I’m here I’d rather be of some use.”

“I suppose you could assist me, if you’d like,” Balin says, lifting an eyebrow at his king. Thorin shrugs and nods in response. “I’ve been flipping through old records, trade agreements and order shipments and the like. They need to be reviewed and sorted.”

“ _Can_ Master Baggins help with that?” Dain asks. “He does not speak our language, after all.”

The words are spoken lightly enough, but they bring a harsh glint to Thorin’s eyes as he slowly lowers his fork from his mouth. 

“He does not,” Thorin confirms, voice tapering into a sharp edge. “But records were kept in the languages of our trade partners as well as our own, and Bilbo is a skilled linguist.”

Dain lifts his hands, palms out and fingers spread wide. “Merely an inquiry.” He turns to Bilbo. “Do you speak elvish, Master Baggins? To my knowledge the Mirkwood elves were once a very prominent trade partner.”

The reminder of this appears to irk Thorin even more, but Bilbo looks away from his soured expression and nods. “Yes, actually. My mother was always very fond of Sindarin. She had a few books that she taught me to read.”

Balin claps his hands together, making Thorin blink and Bilbo jump as the tension in the room snaps. “It is agreed then. Bilbo, you will accompany me to the archive once breakfast is done.”

Kili and Fili look at each other for a long moment, mouths twitching until laughter spills through.

“I don’t think you quite realize what you’ve gotten yourself into,” Fili says.

“You’re going to be so terribly bored,” Kili adds, casting Bilbo a pitying look.

As it turns out, just the opposite is true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God things are actually going to happen soon, but a foundation needs to be set before we get to the real meat of the story. 
> 
> Also, if anyone is interested I can be found at lightshesaid.tumblr.com. You can watch there for updates or just to witness me whine about Richard Armitage. You know, whatever works.


	3. Chapter 3

Bilbo has always been stubborn. It’s a trait, he’s been told, that he’s inherited from his father, a hobbit so set in his ways that Belladonna used to say that Bungo could best even a mule when it came to sinking his feet into the ground and refusing to budge. 

The story goes that when Bilbo’s father revealed his intention to marry Belladonna nearly half the Shire (an exaggeration, Bilbo is sure) found some reason to take him aside and warn him off the Old Took’s strange daughter. 

_Too wild_ they told him. _Never can be sure when that lass might just go running off again. Wandering out into the world will change a hobbit, you know. They say you’re apt to leave a piece of yourself out in the wilderness._

 _Perhaps someone a little more predictable,_ Bungo’s parents advised. _You never have liked surprises, after all._

From experience, Bilbo knows that statement had been true. But Bungo still liked Belladonna just fine even so. He liked her loud fluttering laughter and her long untamed hair, her wit and sharp tongue and the smell of pipe weed that always clung to her pretty dresses.

(At this point in the story Belladonna would take to rolling her eyes and smacking her husband’s arm. In his tween years Bilbo would hide his face in his hands and sigh in dramatic agony.)

And so Bungo listened to each and every warning against her, crossing his arms and nodding his head along politely, never disagreeing. A month rolled by and Bungo did nothing, until one clear morning he marched straight up to Belladonna’s door, a wreath knitted from heather and tulips clasped in his hand, and asked her to marry him before even saying hello. 

_Like I said,_ Belladonna would laugh. _No better than a mule, my husband._

Dwalin once called Bilbo pig-headed after Bilbo had gotten into an unnecessarily heated squabble with Kili over the best way to cook potatoes, going on to say that their burglar was very nearly dwarvish in that manner when Bilbo had sputtered with offense. And although Bilbo had rolled his eyes and waved the comment aside, it made something warm settle in his chest, replacing the cold, uneasy weight that had been sitting in his stomach ever since the incident with the trolls. It was a small thing to be pleased by, silly even, but Dwalin had said it as though it were a compliment, and it had been the first time Bilbo experienced a feeling of belonging among his strange new companions. 

Bilbo’s stubbornness is perhaps the very thing that keeps him from balking when Balin leads him into the archives. He’s never been one to shy away from a task after agreeing to it, but upon seeing the state of the place he can freely admits to at least himself that his resolve threatens to waver.

“Bit of a mess right now,” Balin says, hooking his thumbs into his leather belt, looking as amicable as always. “You understand why I was eager for an extra set of hands.”

The room smells of worn paper and dust, marked by Erebor’s customary high ceilings and towering pillars cut into bold geometric designs. Bilbo is sure that, years ago, it must have been a thing to see indeed. He can picture dwarves scurrying about with order forms and rolls of fresh parchment spilling from their arms, bent over their desks with quills in hand, perhaps crunching unneeded documents into balls and tossing them at each other when there wasn’t much work to be done.

But the wheel of time and has taken its toll. Bilbo can spy the remains of what used to be tables, chiseled with delicate care from smooth stone, now reduced to cracked and crumbing pieces. The shelving units are in much the same state, having collapsed beneath their own weight over the long years, or perhaps accidently tipped over in the flurry of panic that had taken Erebor when the dragon came. The floor is covered in rubble, be it the remains of long-cold torches or fraying tapestries, and Bilbo takes care to watch his feet as he walks, gingerly stepping over splintered chunks of wood or sharp chips of shale.

There are dwarves bustling about all around him, sweeping the mess towards the corners or ducking in and out from between what remains of the bookcases, carrying tall stacks of yellowing parchment and snapped quills, charred books and sullied maps.

Taking in the mere sight of it all is enough to make Bilbo feel anxious. It’s true that he often allows his own books and records to fall into varying states of disarray, but there’s still an order to the chaos that that _he_ at least understands, and tidying up has a only ever a simple matter of putting everything back into its proper place.

Balin motions to Bilbo with a tilt his head and leads him further into the archives, guiding Bilbo towards a closed off section. The area has been fully cleared out, though a stale scent still lingers on the air. Replacement furniture has been brought in along with tall screens constructed from wire and layered cloths, arranged in sets of three to allow for private work space. Balin takes Bilbo behind a few that have been set up close to the wall.

“I’ve requested for all elvish documents be placed here—oh, well now.”

Bilbo suspects there’s a table, and perhaps even a chair, hidden beneath the mound of paper and books piled before him. At least, he hopes there is. 

“Oh dear,” Bilbo says, reaching out and stopping just short of touching a leaflet, wary that even a small nudge may cause the rest to fall. 

“Indeed.” Balin nods, looking thoughtful. He pats Bilbo on the shoulder. “Seems you have your work cut out for you, lad.”

“Do—do you want _all_ of these kept?” Bilbo manages to ask. 

“Anything that’s still legible. They’ll be useful in determining just how many supplies and food stocks we’ll need once Erebor is at full capacity again. Perhaps start by just sorting through what can still be read, hm?” 

A stone basin on rusted metal wheels is rolled over and Bilbo spends the rest of his morning sorting through documents and discarding anything that’s become too eroded to be of any use. He opts for sitting on the floor and fanning the papers out in front of him, slowly sorting them into piles that lean more and more against the dark fabric of the screens as they grow steadily taller. The task is simple enough but becomes a drawn out affair when Bilbo takes to reading through the documents rather than skimming. The shipment and product details are dry and dull and should be terribly boring, but it’s been a long while since Bilbo has encountered unfamiliar elvish, and there’s satisfaction to be found in piecing together what he knows of the language to decipher the muddled words that remain unfamiliar. 

It takes only a few hours of work for Bilbo to conclude that Thorin will need to broker an alliance with the elves of Mirkwood if Erebor is to have any chance of thriving once more. Dwarves are not known for their skills in farming, and while they are willing enough to hunt for their food their choices for game are limited when they reside at the peak of a mountain, whereas in the forest the elves have boar and deer and wild turkeys to pick off. The records indicate that Mirkwood once provided the mountain with large quantities of salted meat and animal pelts, along with other items such as lumber and medicinal herbs. Bilbo can only assume that grain and fresh fruit and vegetables had been a product of Dale.

Bilbo drums his fingers against his knee. To his knowledge, shipments from the Ironhills have been sustaining the Lonely Mountain over the past few months, but they are slow to arrive and heavily rationed. While the coronation feast had been a splendid affair, meals before that were meager matters at best, consisting of tasteless porridges and dried meats and mealy fruits. Bilbo suspects that within the next few days the left over food from the feast will diminish and the quality of the meals will return to what it was. Which is fine, for a time, but there are more dwarves arriving at Erebor each and every day, and Bilbo doesn’t know how much longer their provisions will last at this rate.

Eventually, Laketown will recover from Smaug’s attack and Bard will complete his ambitious task of rebuilding Dale, and perhaps then the dwarves will have the trade partners they need to prosper without worry. But until then it’s clear to Bilbo that the wisest course of action would be for Thorin to turn to the elves, who can offer quicker and larger deliveries of goods and food to a growing population. 

Bilbo pushes himself to his feet, patting the dust from his knees and the seat of his trousers. He manages to find an inkwell buried beneath the paper on his desk and hesitates only for a moment before sitting back down on the floor and setting his quill to a spare scrap of parchment, scribbling out a quick note of his opinion. He stares down at the words afterwards as the ink dries, wondering how many dwarves would argue against them on mere principle.

Bilbo sighs, placing the note aside and dragging a new stack of crumbling documents towards him. Of course, that will be of little concern should Thorin outright reject the idea first.

It was in Mirkwood that Bilbo had learned more of Thorin’s history with the elves. Thorin gradually became more and more willing to swap stories the further they ventured into the forest, likely seeking out a distraction from the clammy humidity and gloomy shadows that had overtaken their lives for the past week. He told Bilbo that his Grandfather once invited Thranduil to Erebor’s halls only to shame him, presenting a chest full of glittering jewels to the elven King and then snapping it shut just beyond the reach of his long fingers when he moved forward to claim them. 

Thorin’s expression darkened as he spoke, the proud line of his shoulders pulling tight. There was no approving lilt to his voice, no smug smile curling over his lips. For all of his hatred towards elves he recited the story with no satisfaction, his voice marked by only a thin, grim waver.

“I can’t see you doing something like that,” Bilbo said, the remark made off-handedly from around the stem of his pipe, his tongue loose from exhaustion. Thorin stirred from his thoughts with a jerk, his eyes bright and wide when they fell on Bilbo. He licked his dry lips and frowned, looking down at his folded hands before pushing himself up to his feet.

“We should move on,” he had said, and Bilbo is certain even now that had been the first time he’d ever seen Thorin at a loss for words.

A shadow falls over Bilbo, blotting out the light from the nearby candlestick and dragging his attention back to the present. 

“Are you lost, Halfling?”

Bilbo blinks. His spine straightens as he lifts his head, his back popping and a knot in his neck making itself known with the movement. He doesn’t recognize the dwarf that towers over him, broad-shouldered with a long, thick beard in the midst of passing from brown to grey. The clasp at his throat marks him as one of Dain’s lords, and Bilbo has little doubt that he was once a general of some sort, standing nearly as tall as Dwalin and just as solid, with a hard and weathered face that may have been pleasant to look upon all the same if he wasn’t currently glaring down at Bilbo with a sneer curling his lip. 

_Halfling_ , he had said.

The Company still refers to Bilbo as such from time to time, but they say it lightly, in a fond or teasing manner. This dwarf calls him _Halfling_ like there is something rotten sitting on the tip of tongue that he means to spit it out alongside the word. 

Bilbo’s manners scuffle against his pride. Halfling, as common as it seems to be in the mouths of dwarves and men, is not thought as being a particularly endearing term to hobbits themselves. Bilbo sets aside his work and pushes himself up to his feet, craning back his head in order to look the dwarf in the eye. He’s come to learn that the most effective way to face a dwarf in any kind of combat is head on at a full charge, meeting their ferocity blow for blow. 

“I’m not, actually,” Bilbo says, offering a smile that’s too sweet to be his own. “Is there something I can help you with?”

The dwarf frowns, deep lines folding across his wide brow. To Bilbo’s private relief Balin chooses that moment to appear from around one of the screens, a teetering stack of books in his arms with loose pages caught beneath their worn covers.

“I may have found a few more for you, Bilbo,” Balin says, setting his load down on the cleared section of Bilbo’s desk before turning towards the visitor, seeming hardly surprised to find him there. “Well, good afternoon, Cador. What brings you by?”

Cador’s lips press together tightly beneath his beard, eyes flickering from Bilbo to Balin and back again. Balin lifts his eyebrows and makes a _go on_ gesture, calm and unwavering in his patience. 

Cador, it seems, has settled on Bilbo to stare at, and speaks without looking away from him. 

“His Majesty has approved an expedition into the mines to check for damage. I came to see if you had any dwarves to spare.”

Balin taps at his chin, humming to himself. “You may have better luck with recruiting from the team posted at the east wall, but I think I have one or two lads wandering about with enough experience to help.”

Bilbo scratches one foot against the heel of the other, resisting the urge to look down or away from Cador’s steely eyes. He’s not certain if he’s growing more irritated or uncomfortable by the staring, but the emotion continues to rise the longer that Cador refuses to look away.

“Is something the matter?” Balin asks, voice light. It’s enough to finally draw Cador’s full attention to him.

The dwarf snorts, stepping forward towards Balin and blocking Bilbo out from the conversation. “You know as well as I do that it’s a grave crime for an outsider to learn our language.”

Bilbo opens his mouth. “I don’t—” he starts, but cuts himself off when Balin raises an open hand towards him.

“You’ll be happy to learn that issue has already been addressed today. Bilbo’s only here to translate the elvish texts.”

Cador sneers, looking down at the messy stacks of paper on the floor, the cluttered mess engulfing Bilbo’s desk, his movements slow and exaggerated for effect. “Hardly any better.”

“But not against our laws.” 

“A waste of time, all the same. The Lonely Mountain should have nothing more to do with those tree shaggers, let alone take —weeks? Months? Trying to slog through their gibbering language.” 

“I think that’s for the King to decide,” Bilbo says, hands on his hips, tone turning sharp, all but inviting further argument. He braces himself but doesn’t expect for Cador to hold his tongue, to instead whip around and _glare_ at Bilbo with nothing but sheer hatred twisting over his hard face. 

Bilbo blinks and nearly takes a step backwards, his foot sliding across the filthy floor and brushing against a short roll of parchment before it halts. He’s not entirely sure if it’s his Baggins’ stubbornness or simple shock that keeps him stuck in place. Perhaps a healthy mix of both.

Balin clears his throat. “Well, there you have it. Unless you’d rather try your hand at translating instead I see no problem with Master Baggins offering his services. Now, I think Yor’s sons may be able to help you. They should be hovering just near the entrance, actually.”

Cador glowers for a moment longer, his face reddening. He nods to Balin once before storming away, his stance tight and jaw clenched. The screens hide his retreat from view, but Bilbo can hear the heavy sounds of his stomping boots echoing off the walls of the archives long after he leaves.

Balin sighs, massaging at his brow. 

“Don’t pay him any mind,” he says, patting Bilbo’s shoulder, lips tipping into an encouraging smile. “The mere mention of elves is enough to set any hot-headed dwarf off.”

Bilbo looks up at Balin and doesn’t humour him with a smile or nod of his head. He waits and watches as Balin’s smile fades, thinking back to the questioning eyes that had hounded him throughout Thorin’s coronation, the soft gasp that wafted up from the crowd when the King bent low to touch his brow.

“Balin,” Bilbo says. “Do many dwarves here feel that way about me?” 

For a moment Bilbo is afraid that Balin is going to play dumb, to tilt his head and put on a look of confusions and say _Why, what way would that be?_.

To his relief, Balin instead crosses his arms. “Hardly. Don’t allow for one testy dwarf to sour you against all of Erebor. I can assure you that you are more than welcomed here.”

Bilbo has never known Balin to lie, understanding that instead that Balin much prefers stepping around the truth to outright discrediting it. It’s a mannerism that reminds Bilbo a little of Gandalf, and Bilbo learned very quickly that the best way to get a straight answer out of a tetchy wizard to was to simply refuse to drop the issue. 

He sees no reason for the technique to fail on a dwarf, stone-headed though they may be.

“But not by all,” Bilbo presses, and Balin deflates somewhat before scrutinizing Bilbo with a critical eye.

“What precisely are you looking for me to say, Master Baggins?” 

Bilbo swallows, and it takes him a moment to unstick his tongue from the back of his teeth before he can manage to squeeze out the words.

“It’s because I gave the arkenstone to Bard, isn’t it?”

Balin blinks at him, twice, before his expression falls curiously blank.

“I think you are in need of a break, Master Baggins,” he says, his voice pitched loud enough to make Bilbo jump.

“I… what?”

“Come along, I have just the place for you.”

Balin leads Bilbo out from behind his screens and even further into the archives, plucking a torch from its place on the wall as they go. He steps over the debris and kicks aside the remains of what may have once been a wooden chair before leading Bilbo out onto a small, squared off balcony that Bilbo imagines may have once served a place for dwarves to go and enjoy a quick pipe between shifts.

Bilbo winces away from the daylight, bringing a hand up to hover over his eyes and blot out the sun. If there is but one thing he will never grow accustomed to while living in a mountain surely it will be the shock of daylight he’s greeted with each time he steps out the door. Balin slots the torch into a rusted holder attached to the outside wall, eyeing it for a moment to make sure it will hold before turning towards Bilbo.

“I recommend that you be a little more careful about where you decide to speak of such things in the future, Master Baggins,” Balin says, voice laced with a soft kind of disappointment, a gentle scolding that stings more than it should. 

“So… do the dwarves not know that I—?”

“Few are privy to the details of that incident, and we would prefer to keep it that way. It’s known to some that Thorin fell ill, and to many more that the arkenstone exchanged hands before the battle.” Balin lifts his arm, resting his elbow up atop the stone railing as he sighs. “Thorin’s accusations towards you were, unfortunately, a very public affair, overheard by elves and men both. So there are rumours floating about as to just _how_ Bard managed to come into possession of the king’s jewel.” 

“ _Rumours?_ ” Bilbo says, incredulous, on the verge of laughter. “Well, how else would he have gotten it if not for me?”

Balin waves a hand at him. “That matter is less important than you may think. Keep in mind that Thorin has since retracted his words. He asked for you on his deathbed, invited you to stay in Erebor, and then there were his actions at his coronation. Not only is there no proof of your theft but the king has made his own position towards you very clear to any cynics.” 

Bilbo frowns. “What—what do you mean? ‘His actions’?”

Balin lifts a white eyebrow before tilting his head, clearly waiting for Bilbo to come to a conclusion of his own.

“You’re talking about… ah…?” Bilbo falters, hands flailing before he makes a vague gesture towards his own face. The corners of Balin’s eyes crinkle, a huff of mirth escaping him.

“Indeed,” Balin mimics Bilbo’s awkward gesturing, seeming all the more amused. “Touching brows is an intimate act among our kind, usually reserved for family members or spouses. For a King to do so with an outsider…”

Balin strokes his beard, lost in thought for a moment before casting an eye back to Bilbo. No doubt there’s a question brewing there, perhaps one Balin suspects he already knows the answer to, but nothing more is spoken aloud.

“Should he not have done that?” Bilbo asks, ignoring the prickling at the back of his neck, the heat that has risen to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Balin shrugs. “It was bold of him, perhaps overly so, but he certainly made his point. There’s no doubt that Thorin holds you in high regard, Bilbo. Accusing you of any wrongdoings now would be unwise for any dwarf.”

Bilbo nods slowly. He swallows hard and clasps his hands together, his rounded nails biting into his skin. What must he look like to Cador, to all the dwarves of Erebor who have heard whispers of his deed? Nothing more than an interloper, surely? A thief who has somehow wormed his way into the heart of their king, undeserving of his friendship and forgiveness. They had not been there, could not know how gold lust and sickness had twisted Thorin’s will, turned him into a skulking shadow of his former self, made him harsh and cruel and gluttonous. Bilbo would never be able to describe the fear that had torn through him as he watched Thorin fade, how desperation drove him from the mountain with a bargain forming in his mind and the arkenstone safe in his pocket, how completely it had smothered out his own selfish desire for the jewel. 

Bilbo understands the need for secrecy, but he’s left to wonder how many now think Thorin foolish for allowing Bilbo to stay, if they see him as weak or under manipulation. 

“Balin?” 

“Mm?”

“Why didn’t you mention this before? Why didn’t _any_ of you?”

Balin steps away from the railing, coming close enough to rest a dry, warm palm over the curve of Bilbo’s shoulder. “Because this is not something that should be left to hang over your head, Bilbo. I don’t blame you for your actions, nor do any of the Company. Thorin wishes to move on, and I can only assume you feel the same?”

“Well, yes, of course, but—”

“Then it’s certainly no business of anyone else what transpired that day.” 

“But they still know I did it. They still don’t _want_ me here.”

“Oh? Have any others apart from Cador treated you poorly? Did they turn away your help when you offered to attend to our sick and wounded, scowl at you as you trotted down our halls?”

Bilbo opens his mouth and shuts it again, is forced to shake his head. It’s true that the stares he receives appear to be of a curious nature rather than hostile, that nearly all the dwarves he’s actually spoken to have acted no more rude than the Company had been when they first invaded his home.

“No,” Bilbo admits.

“Then believe me when I say that Cador’s opinion is but one of many. I ask that you not let some stubborn dolt try to rush you out the door before you’re ready to leave.”

Bilbo coughs into his hand, looking down at his dust covered feet. “Well… to be fair, I think that just about sums up how I ended up on this adventure in the first place.”

Balin chuckles, which in turn draws a small laugh out from Bilbo, though it does little to ease the tightness in his chest, to erase the sick feeling sitting in a gnarled ball in the pit of his stomach.

 

 

Bilbo skips lunch. He claims to not be hungry when Balin asks, but in truth he’s in no mood to face his usual onlookers, harmless though they may be. He doesn’t want to speculate on just who or how many may smile politely at his face before sneering at his turned back.

To his surprise Bombur visits not an hour later, brandishing a hot bowl of soup. A result, no doubt, of Balin’s quick work. He leans against the side of Bilbo’s desk, watching him eat and chattering on about the sorry state of the kitchens, how he’s just about ready to march up to the smithys and demand that more cookware be made before anything else is seen to. To hear him speak it seems it was nothing short of a miracle that the coronation feast turned out as well as it did, what with the equipment that dwarves had to work with. Bilbo nods along more than he actually talks, but both the food and company are welcome distractions from his earlier conversations, and he’s grateful to have them before turning again to his readings.

Balin appears a few more times throughout the day to check on Bilbo’s progress. On one of his visits Bilbo gives him the short list of notes and suggestions he’s been keeping, fiddling with the parchment and asking Balin to pass it on to Thorin if Bilbo doesn’t bump into him again himself.

“All though, I suppose you shouldn’t bother if you think I’m overstepping—?”

Balin looks at Bilbo as if that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever said to him, tucking the scrap of paper into his pocket and saying that he’ll make sure the King receives it.

The rest of the day is steadily worked away, and Bilbo becomes so engrossed in his translations that by the time he thinks of turning in the archives are all but empty and the second evening bell has begun to toll. He debates with himself as to whether or not he should duck into the mess hall before heading back to his room, the temptation of food always being a difficult one for a hobbit to resist, but Bilbo’s hands are coated with a fine layer of filth, dirt lining the bed of his nails and smeared over his wrists, and the drying sweat beneath the collar of his tunic makes him feel sticky with grime. In the end, even a growling stomach isn’t enough to dissuade Bilbo from cleaning up before allowing himself dinner.

Bilbo kicks his door closed behind him, peeling off his tunic before the latch has even clicked shut. Dust billows outwards from the folds in his clothing when he shakes it, and so Bilbo is sure to repeat the action with his trousers as well, wrinkling his nose in distaste. If he didn’t smell this morning he certainly must now. 

He pads over to the bathroom in nothing but his thin undershirt, heading straight towards the tub. He’s not yet had the opportunity to put it to proper use, but already Bilbo thinks it’s his favourite feature in his quarters. The tub has been carved from a large, black stone, polished down and hollowed out like a bowl, so deep that Bilbo thinks he may just run the risk of drowning if he fills it too much. 

Bilbo shrugs into his robe as he waits for the tub to fill with water heated by the furnaces kept aflame deep within the mountain, flopping onto his bed and picking through one of the more interesting looking documents he’s brought back with him. 

He’s interrupted not five minutes later by a knock at the door.

“Hello, Master Baggins,” Bofur says when Bilbo answers, passing off a tray of food into his open hands. He winks and tells him that the King wishes him a goodnight, and Bilbo is so startled he only thinks to shout out a garbled thank you once Bofur has already begun to retreat down the hallway.

Bilbo looks down at the food, inhaling spicy scent of the stew and taking note of the extra roll of bread that’s been added to his plate, the large jelly tart placed at the side. All of it, no doubt, has been cobbled up from the leftovers from the previous night, but it looks just as good now as it did then. Bilbo has eaten nearly half of the stew before he notices the folded slip of paper tucked beneath the mug of wine. 

_Balin mentioned that you worked through dinner._

The writing is bold and neat, undoubtedly a product of Thorin’s hand. Bilbo blinks, turning the message over and finding nothing on the other side. There are a few scattered dots of ink trailing out behind the sentence, as if Thorin had pressed his quill back down to the page with the intent to write more only to come up with nothing to say. The image is enough to make Bilbo laugh: Thorin frowning down at the parchment, rolling his quill back and forth between his fingers as he tried to decide on what to write. Bilbo continues to eat as he pictures it, the tension he’s been carrying with him all afternoon finally slipping from his shoulders. He leaves his meal only for a moment to turn off the tub’s faucet before going back to bed and finishing as he reads, a stray giggle rising up every now and again. 

“Ridiculous dwarf,” Bilbo mumbles to himself as he wanders back towards the bathroom, shedding his robe and taking the wine with him. Bilbo has heard Thorin make speeches compelling enough to rally allies and enemies alike to his side, speak with such passion and pride that it caused hairs to raise on the back of Bilbo’s neck, and yet somehow the simple act of writing a quick note to a friend appears to be enough to freeze his tongue.

Bilbo leaves his wine on the lip of the tub, hoisting himself over the ledge and hissing as slips into the water. There’s a small, curved bench that’s been carved into the stone, and Bilbo sits on it after dunking his head beneath the surface, scrubbing at his face with both hands before running his fingers back through his curls. He lathers a cloth with soap and scrubs himself pink, taking extra time to work on the dirty soles of his feet.

Afterwards he closes his eyes, allows his body to go slack as he sinks further down into the water, stopping just as the surface breaks against his chin. His thoughts continue to circle around Thorin, catching against images of his dark hair and hard profile, the clear memory of Thorin’s thumb grazing against the apple of Bilbo’s cheek. 

It’s a slippery slope to stand on, but Bilbo finds that he can't bring himself to care. His eyes fall shut and he thinks of Thorin stretched out on top of him, of Thorin’s mouth on his neck and feather light kisses being followed by the slow drag of teeth. Bilbo lingers on the memory of Thorin’s face hovering above his own, eyes dark with desire with a red flush staining his throat. He regrets not asking Thorin to remove his tunic, wishes he had taken the opportunity to press his hands flat to Thorin’s naked chest, to draw his fingers over his scars or the dark line of hair that trails down Thorin’s stomach, to press his mouth to dusky nipples and lick.

Bilbo shifts against the edge of the tub, his tongue swiping along his bottom lip as sweat breaks out in beads along his brow. Would Thorin have allowed Bilbo to climb on top of him? To press him down into the dirt instead? Would his eyes had grown as dark as they did if it were Bilbo who had taken control? Thorin had been so quiet when they were together, and Bilbo now wonders if he could have pushed for more, if he could have made Thorin moan, if he could have made him beg.

More than once Bilbo has thought of turning to Thorin and saying _do you remember the night we had a tumble on dry grass beneath the stars? Why did we never find a way to do that again? Because I feel like we could have if we really wanted to._

In his fantasies Bilbo likes to think that Thorin will meet the question with humour, lift an eyebrow and ask Bilbo to name a second time they should have taken advantage of and smirk as Bilbo fumbles for an answer. And maybe that would spur Thorin to laugh, to step close and tuck his fingers beneath Bilbo’s jaw and say that they may be able to find some time _now_ , if Bilbo would like.

But when considering the conversation honestly, Bilbo can only picture Thorin blanching, refusing to answer or worse: saying that it’s for the best. Bilbo doesn’t doubt Thorin’s affections for him as a friend and confidant, but Thorin’s eyes have always been directed towards the future, and he’s never focused on Bilbo like he has on Erebor, standing tall and proud and always in the distance, just beyond Thorin’s reach until it wasn’t. 

Thorin has won his mountain, has fought and bled and nearly died for it, but now he must rule it which is another challenge entirely. It will take years for Erebor to settle into stability, and even then Thorin may be unable to do anything but cling to Erebor, afraid that it will be torn from his grasp the moment he dares to lower his guard or look away. 

Bilbo’s arousal has begun to wane, and he suddenly feels too tired to try to fan the flame back to life, his head muddled from the heat and his heart feeling as though it’s been pierced by a hook on either side and yanked back and forth in his chest. Bilbo sits up with a sigh, rubbing at his heavy eyes and shaking his head in a poor attempt to clear it. He climbs out from the tub, nearly stumbling when he throws his legs over the ledge and hops down to the floor, shivering as the air touches his skin. He pulls the plug and exits into his bedroom with the towel wrapped around his body like a blanket, not bothering to dress into a nightshirt before crawling into bed, turning onto his side and dragging the covers with him, still damp beneath the thick furs. 

_What am I doing here?_

He faces the question directly for the first time, and though half a dozen answers strike him they all shatter against the longing for home that seizes Bilbo so ruthlessly it squeezes the air from his lungs and makes his chest ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha... anyone still reading? I'm very sorry for such a long delay between chapters. I'm in charge of running a garden centre over the next two months and working outside all day has really been sapping my energy. On the bright side: chapter three was actually going to be twice this length but I decided to cut it in half for flow purposes, so the next update shouldn't take more than two weeks (provided that editing goes well).
> 
> Apart from that, I really want to thank everyone who's been leaving comments or kudos or just keeping an eye on this story to see where it goes. Your support has incredibly encouraging, and I hope you all enjoy what's to come.


	4. Chapter 4

Bilbo sleeps through most of the morning. He wakes to the brassy toll of the early bell but fails to rise, curling up into a snug ball and burying his face beneath the covers, trying to blot out the resonating ring that trembles through walls and comes to an unsettled rest in his bones. Bilbo had never been a late riser in the Shire, nor was there ever much of a chance to sleep in while on the road. He’s always liked greeting the morning, likes the sensation of waking to soft light and the promise of food and tea, likes the slick feeling of grass cool with fresh dew beneath his feet and watching the sky pale with colour as the sun rises. 

There’s something about the constant darkness of Erebor that changes all of that, making Bilbo want to hide away and cling to sleep. When he does finally manage to drag himself out of bed he feels gritty-eyed and irritable, nearly tripping over his own feet when the sheet hooks around his ankle. He bolts straight to the archives, skipping both first and second breakfast and resolutely not meeting the eye of any dwarf he passes along the way. More scrolls have been added to his desk in his absence, effectively erasing the dent in the towering pile he had achieved the day before. Bilbo stares at his work load for a long time, glancing down at the stacks of paper on the floor, the newly emptied garbage bin just waiting to be refilled, and very nearly throws up his hands and marches straight back to his room to sleep the rest of the day away.

Balin checks in on him at noon. There’s a plush cushion tucked under his elbow that he passes down to Bilbo with a dry chuckle, saying that perhaps Bilbo should have been given two desks: one to sit at and one for storage.

“It’s really not so bad,” Bilbo says, looking up at Balin from where he’s settled on the ground, shifting to place the cushion beneath him. Sleeping for months atop of tree roots, sharp stones and prickling grass has well prepared him for Erebor’s hard floors.

“Even so. I think we’ll have to find you a proper office soon enough, laddie.” 

Bilbo nearly tells Balin not to bother. It’s not as though Bilbo will be staying much longer –perhaps another month at most. But the words feel heavy on the tip of his tongue, hardly worth the effort of voicing, and so Bilbo settles for a thin smile instead.

“You know,” Balin adds, pausing just before he leaves. “Your invitation to breakfast was more than a one time offer. You were welcome to join us today, or tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“I overslept,” Bilbo says, seeing no point in mentioning that he had _not_ known, actually. His moodiness isn’t helped at all by the knowledge. Bilbo would have liked the opportunity to speak with Thorin and thank him for sending supper, perhaps even allude to the stilted note and coax Dis into teasing her brother about it. 

“Tomorrow, then,” Balin says with a nod.

Bilbo is cheered by the invitation, even waking up early the next morning to leave himself enough time to wash before breakfast. The company and conversation is more than welcomed after a day of speaking to nearly no one, but Bilbo’s heart still sinks when Thorin’s seat remains stubbornly empty for the entirety of the meal.

“Urgent business, he said,” Dis tells him, rolling her eyes over her goblet.

“You… disagree?”

Dis smiles at him, shaking her head, her earrings or the beads in her hair chiming softly. 

“I won’t bore you with rants about my brother. Not today, at least.”

Bilbo nods, risking another quick glance towards the end of the table, turning his attention back to his food when Dis tilts her head at him curiously.

 _Tomorrow,_ Bilbo tells himself. _I’m sure I’ll see him tomorrow._

 

 

Over the following days the scroll deliveries dwindle to a stop and Bilbo is finally free to begin translating in earnest. Though he’s doing little more than copying down dull stock details and order forms, Bilbo never finds himself wearying of the work. It gives him something to focus on, keeps his hands busy and his mind occupied.

It’s the time he has outside of the archives that grows difficult to bear.

Though his friends take to visiting him often, dragging Bilbo along with them on their rounds or whisking him away to see the restoration projects taking place across the mountain, a peculiar feeling of isolation takes root in Bilbo that refuses to be plucked free. It’s strange, as Bilbo has never been particularly sociable, often preferring the company of his old books and maps over that of another hobbit. Perhaps it’s only a natural result of being surrounded by dwarves that remain all but strangers to him even after a fortnight of working along side them. The knowledge that some odd number resent his mere presence does little to help the matter, and Bilbo finds himself feeling alone even when he’s having a pipe with Bofur or watching Fili and Kili spar with Dwalin at his side.

He sees Thorin rarely and speaks to him even less. Each day Bilbo sets off to a breakfast that the king barely seems to have any time for, often leaving partway through the meal when he does manage to show, ushered away by a breathless messenger or a hastily delivered scroll before Bilbo even has the chance to wish him a good morning.

 _Why am I here?_

The question has taken to haunting Bilbo, keeps him awake at night when he’s not preoccupied with thoughts of home. Though he has many answers to choose from, one stands out against the rest, nagging him, impossible to ignore as much as he would like to.

He stays because Thorin wanted him to. Because he wasn’t yet ready to say goodbye. 

Bilbo isn’t sure if that’s changed or not, but is beginning to think that it doesn’t matter quite so much. Perhaps it would even be easier to part with Thorin and the others now before Bilbo grows completely disillusioned with Erebor and his aching for home turns him sullen and bitter.

He decides to wait out the month, to complete at least some of the translations the dwarves will be utterly hopeless with before going to Thorin and asking for an escort to lead him back home.

After all, what point is there in missing both Thorin and the Shire when he can still have one?

 

 

It takes three weeks for Bilbo to be given a runner, a young red-haired dwarf with a thick, wiry beard. The first time the dwarf catches sight of Bilbo he does a quick double-take that sends him bumping into the pointed corner of the wall. He sputters and quickly vanishes behind, disappearing from view for a long moment. When he comes back Bilbo smiles up at him as though he’s noticed none of the lad’s fumbling.

“Do you need anything?” The dwarf asks, offering no introduction or bow. His voice is gruff and closed off, and he stares pointedly at the empty space just next to Bilbo’s head. 

Bilbo would have to be blind, and possibly deaf, to not recognize him as Gloin’s son. 

Bilbo taps the end of his quill against his desk, clear enough now for him to actually use it. “Well, first of all: hello.”

Gimli —that _was_ the boy’s name, wasn’t it?— looks at Bilbo, thick brows lowering over his eyes. 

“Hello,” Gimli parrots back to him. His beard adds maturity to his face, making Gimli look older than Fili even if his attitude only serves to remind Bilbo of a sulky tween being forced to go about his daily chores. 

“I need a new bottle of ink and another quill, if you can find one,” Bilbo says. “Oh, and Ori said he had some papers set aside for me in the east library.”

Gimli grumbles and marches away, looking so surly that Bilbo half expects him to not return at all. But, to his credit, Gimli does reappear not ten minutes later, a basket hanging from the crook of his arm containing two fresh bottles of ink and a cluster or quills held together with a string, sitting atop of Ori’s papers.

He places the basket onto Bilbo’s desk without a word, rushing away before Bilbo even has the chance to thank him. 

The ordeal leaves a sour taste in Bilbo’s mouth. He had been looking forward to meeting Gloin’s son, thinking at the very least Gimli would be willing to speak with him for longer than twenty seconds.

“He’s just a boy,” Dwalin says to him later, having all but carried Bilbo away from his work to join him on a walk along the outer walls. “Not sure what you’re getting all twisted up about.”

Bilbo had the good sense to grab a scarf before stepping outside, and is thankful for his foresight now. It’s snowing lazily, the flakes large and damp and melting slowly in Bilbo’s hair, and the air is bitterly cold even if the breeze is soft. Bilbo tugs the wool over his mouth and nose, breathing into it to feel the warm puff of his breath billow back against his face. He’s lagging behind, watching as Dwalin walks over a crumbling break in the path with one long stride, so confident in his step that he doesn’t even bother glancing down at his boots.

Bilbo unties and reties his scarf, keeps his feet planted firmly against the cold stone beneath him, not yet feeling daring enough to follow Dwalin over.

“And I suppose it wouldn’t bother you to be snubbed for no discernable reason?” 

Dwalin snorts and lets out a loud guffaw.

“Of course,” Bilbo says. “My mistake, then.” 

“Are you going to come along or continue to stand there?”

Bilbo looks down at his feet, at the crack just beyond his toes, surely wide enough for Bilbo’s leg to slip through, perhaps even his entire body if he fell in just the right way. “Will you lend me a hand?”

“You’re not going to fall.”

“Yes, I know, because I will grab your arm if I slip.”

Dwalin leans forward, reaching across the gap and snagging Bilbo by the back his collar. With a jerk he lifts Bilbo up and over the crack, and Bilbo squeaks and kicks out, wiggling away once his feet are back on the ground.

Bilbo thinks it should bother him more, that he should find himself offended whenever a dwarf sees fit to nudge him along to where they want him to go, or haul him about like a ragdoll. But he’s beginning to think it’s merely a characteristic of their kind, a rough physicality that follows on the heels of friendship or affection. 

Even so, Bilbo sees no reason why he shouldn’t still comment on it.

“That was a bit much,” he says, straightening his collar. He takes his time in adjusting his tunic when Dwalin casts a look, the one he likes to direct at Bilbo when he thinks the hobbit is being unreasonably fussy.

“You were the one that didn’t want to hop across.”

They continue on their way, Dwalin shortening his strides enough to allow Bilbo to walk comfortably at his side rather than trailing behind. They pause once they reach a rounded terrace that slopes downwards to become a part of the mountain itself. They’re low enough to Erebor’s base for there to be soil and saplings within view, the smell of pine and earth sharp on the frosty air. Bilbo breathes in deep, closes his eyes as he feels a weight in chest begin to lighten. He will have to remember this place. 

It’s a fine spot to view the training yard from, and down below Bilbo can see Dain’s soldiers squaring off against each other, armed with blunted swords and creaking wooden shields. He watches in silence for some time, even now taken aback by the ferocity of dwarves, how they propel themselves against their opponent like a landslide made flesh, trying to barrel through anything that dares to stand in their path.

Next to him, Dwalin crosses his arms, eyes thinning against the sun. He doesn’t seem particularly interested in the sparing, but he also doesn’t knock his elbow against Bilbo’s shoulder to get him moving again.

“How’s Thorin?” Bilbo asks after a spell, rocking up onto his heels and back down, hoping the question doesn’t sound as awkward aloud as it does in his head.

“Busy,” Dwalin says.

Bilbo nods slowly, waiting for more that Dwalin doesn’t offer.

“I did gather that,” Bilbo says.

“Hm.”

“I just… I haven’t see much of him, lately.”

“He’s rebuilding a kingdom.”

“Even kings need a day off every now and then, I should I think.”

Dwalin grunts and shrugs, which Bilbo thinks is the closest thing to an agreement he could have reasonably hoped for.

“Has he been well, at least?”

Dwalin’s looks at him, hardly even bothering to turn his head, his eyes dark and gauging. Bilbo, to his private shame, had believed Dwalin to be a little dull-witted when they first met. He soon came to realize that while Dwalin doesn’t possess the wit or knowledge of his brother, he’s plenty clever in his own right. His silence stretches because he thinks carefully before he speaks, turning things over in his mind and peering at them from different angles before allowing himself an opinion.

“As well as he ever is,” Dwalin says, his gaze shifting back towards the flat horizon. It’s a surprisingly honest answer, and enough to blunt Bilbo’s tongue.

There’s no door on the terrace so Dwalin leads them back the way they came, giving Bilbo a firm push so he’s forced to meet the gap first. Bilbo clenches his teeth and leaps across, closing his eyes so he doesn’t catch sight of the ground dashing by below. Dwalin either laughs or grunts behind him once he lands, saying, “Not so bad now, was it?” before following him over.

Bilbo wanders off towards his quarters once they part ways, unlacing his scarf and allowing it to hang over his shoulders as he walks, so long that the frayed ends brush against his ankles with each step. Perhaps a third of his translations have migrated from his workspace to his bedroom, there for when Bilbo feels too weary to properly face the day. He likes the privacy his room offers, the simple comfort of being able to read while lounging in a rocking chair or stretched out across the bed. Already, he’s thinking of spending a leisurely evening doing just that.

Kili is waiting for him. Bilbo finds him sitting with his back to his door, hunched forward and fiddling with a small, wooden puzzle box in his hands, twisting the top section one way and then the other, taking no notice of Bilbo’s near-silent footfalls. 

Bilbo forces himself to breathe against the sigh that threatens to escape his lungs. He can already guess what Kili is here for, and though he’s been expecting this conversation for some time, he had hoped the idea wouldn’t strike Kili quite so soon.

Kili tucks the puzzle box away with huff, catching sight of Bilbo only when he shakes the hair from his face. 

“Bilbo!” He scrambles to his feet, his smile wide and bright. Inflated, Bilbo suspects, but not false.

“Kili,” Bilbo says, opening the door to his room and inviting Kili in with a tip of his head. “What can I do for you?”

Kili waits for the door shut before he says it, squaring his shoulders and crossing his arms, looking so uncharacteristically somber it’s nearly comical. 

“Can you teach me elvish?” He asks, and Bilbo does have to let out a sigh, at that. 

“Let’s sit down,” he says.

Kili is quick to comply, settling next to Bilbo on the edge of the bed, letting his legs sprawl and putting his weight on his arms stretched out behind him. “You look worried. Why are you worried?”

“I’m not worried. I just—are you sure that would be a good idea?”

Kili blinks, his smooth brow crumpling. 

“I mean—” Bilbo continues, hands fumbling uselessly in the air. “Couldn’t that cause problems for you if someone found out?”

“You sound like Fili,” Kili mumbles, looking down at his feet.

Bilbo thinks back to Fili standing with him atop the mountain, blue sky and crows cawing overhead. _Yes,_ he thinks. _I suppose I would._

“He’s concerned,” Bilbo says.

“He shouldn’t be! No one’s going to know, and even if they do find out you can just say I’m learning so that I can assist you, or something.”

“Assist me?” Bilbo doesn’t want to condescending, he _doesn’t_ , but there’s no stopping his laughter. “Have you ever even stepped foot into the archives?”

Kili waves a hand at him. “That can easily be changed.”

“Can it? There’s nowhere else you’re expected to be during the day? Nothing you should be helping with instead?”

“I can spare an hour here and there.” Kili’s voice is firm, though he looks less certain than he sounds. “Bilbo, listen, I’ve thought about this!” Kili pushes himself to his feet, speaking over Bilbo when he tries to argue. “Balin and Thorin have been talking about opening new trade agreements with the elves anyways, so it only makes sense for someone here to know how to speak their language after you’ve—” Kili stops, words choking off. “After you leave.”

Bilbo isn’t sure which part of that outburst he should be addressing first, but when he opens his mouth what comes out is: “Thorin’s willing to negotiate with _elves?_ Mirkwood elves?”

Kili scratches at his jaw. “Negotiate may be a strong word.”

“Ah. That seems about right, then.”

“But he doesn’t have much of a choice though, does he? Isn’t that what you’ve been writing?”

Bilbo starts. He wasn’t even entirely sure that Thorin had been reading his lists of suggestions, let alone sharing them.

But then, it shouldn’t surprise Bilbo to learn that Kili’s been shown his notes, shouldn’t strike him just now that it would only make sense for Thorin to include his nephews in on his decisions, perhaps even turning to them and asking for their counsel if only to have them grow accustomed to giving it.

“Well, yes,” Bilbo says, clearing his throat. “But still… he does tend to be stubborn.”

Kili holds up his hands, lifts his shoulders, doesn’t seem to understand it either. He drops his arms and looks at Bilbo expectedly, waiting for an answer that Bilbo still has yet to give.

Bilbo rubs at his eyes, leaving a hand pressed to his face and peering at Kili from between his splayed fingers. Bad idea or not, Kili is a dwarf grown by the standards of his people, old enough to be whisked away on a quest all but doomed to failure, old enough to fight a war. 

What place of it is Bilbo’s, to treat him like a child?

“Your brother’s going to be very cross with me,” he says.

Kili perks up, his eyes growing wide and bright before shrouding over with worry. 

“You won’t tell Thorin, will you?”

Bilbo scoffs, something twisting sharply in his chest. “I would have to actually speak with Thorin again for that to happen.”

Kili falls silent for a long moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his long shadow swaying against the wall.

“Bilbo, you know he’s—”

“Busy, yes.” Bilbo deflates, his chin dipping downwards as his shoulders fall. “I’m sorry, that was—I’m tired. Don’t mind me, all right? 

“All right,” Kili says. He settles next to Bilbo again, keeping his spine straight instead of curving forward into his usual slouch, holding himself with an awkward stillness.

“Kili?”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure about this? It’s bound to come out, and will lead to questions no matter what you claim.”

Kili ducks his head. His hair spills forward, hiding his face from view, but Bilbo thinks he catches sight of a small, private smile. “I think—she would like it, if I learned. It would be a nice surprise.”

Bilbo shoos Kili away after setting a date for their first lesson, wringing his hands together after the door shuts and pacing the room in wide circles. He crouches before the hearth and gives the fire a stir with the poker, hovering there long after and watching the flames lick against wood and charred stone.

Already, it feels as though he’s made a mistake. 

 

 

Bilbo makes a final trip to the archives before the day ends, a sheaf of new translations caught snugly beneath his arm, the ink so fresh it looks more plum coloured than black. He’s used the rest of his bottle and is down to his final roll of parchment, and figures now is as good a time as any to make use of the supplies he had Gimli fetch this morning. The early preparation can serve as an excuse to sleep in tomorrow without having to feel guilty, should the urge strike him.

He passes Cador upon entering the archives. The dwarf is chatting with someone by the entrance, leaning against the wall and so close to the door that Bilbo nearly has to brush by him in order to enter. He ducks his head and pointedly ignores him as he walks pass, even when he sees Cador stiffen out of the corner of his eye. 

The room is nearly empty, only a few dwarves still wandering about as they pack up for the night. Bilbo beelines for his desk, never more thankful for the screens hiding him from view. He considers the benefits of loitering there until Cador wanders away, and is instantly annoyed with himself for the very thought. Bilbo is a member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. He’s a personal guest of the king and currently being set to work on a task that no one else in Erebor could hope to complete. There’s no reason he should be made to hide himself away, to feel nervous over stirring the ire of a grumpy old dwarf.

Bilbo jumps when a metallic crash rings throughout the room, followed by the flurrying sound of paper falling to the floor. He nearly knocks a pile off his own desk as a result, his hand slamming down on top of it before he rushes out to find the source of the commotion. He’s met with Cador hovering next to an overturned cart, one that had been stacked with neatly organized documents Bilbo had spent nearly three hours sorting through the day before.

“Oh, I’m _very_ sorry, Master Baggins. How clumsy of me.”

Bilbo stares at scattered scrolls, the clean sheets of paper he’s written his translations on paired with the original documents, now fanned out across the floor in a jumbled mess. He wants to stomp up to Cador and jab his finger into his chest, ask just how a lord of the Ironhills gets off on acting like an ill-tempered little brat. He wants to laugh and wave Cador away, tell him he’s dealt with his fair share of prickly dwarves already, thank you, and has had quite enough of it at this point. He wants yell, to throw up his hands and leave, to find Thorin and tell him he’s more than ready to go back to the Shire now, please. 

Cador offers him a shallow bow, the glint in his eye mocking and not the least bit sorry. A dwarf on his way out casts Bilbo a sympathetic glance but says nothing, and Cador turns on his heel, departing before Bilbo manages to act on any of his hate fuled fantasies, leaving him to sink down to his knees and begin gathering up the papers alone. 

Later, Bilbo knows, he will remember that it’s for the best he failed to recover from his shock in time for his tongue to grow sharp, but presently he only feels angry, at himself and at Cador and the whole of the mountain all together, his face heated and heart hammering. For a mad instant Bilbo is tempted to throw the scroll in his hand clear across the room.

“Well, he has a mighty large thorn up his arse about you, now doesn’t he?”

Bilbo looks up to find Gimli standing over him, hands on his hip, his expression hidden by the bulk of his beard.

Bilbo isn’t sure how to feel about Gimli’s sudden reappearance, but his instinct is to be defensive. His lips thin instead of curling into a smile, and he sets the papers in his hands aside without saying a word.

Gimli shifts his weight. “You’re not mad I didn’t say ‘hello’ again, are you?”

Bilbo huffs out a breath, looks down at the mess scattered around him and back up at Gimli. 

“No,” he says dryly. “I don’t think I’m mad about that.”

Gimli makes a sound in the back of his throat. “ _Hmph._ Dad said you were funny.”

Bilbo frowns. He can’t remember ever making Gloin laugh.

“You’re a good deal more friendly than you were this morning,” Bilbo says. It sounds like an accusation, but Bilbo can’t bring himself to be concerned over something as small as his tone.

“If it bothers you I could knock more of your papers down onto the floor.”

Bilbo sighs. “No, that’s quite all right.”

To his surprise Gimli stoops down and begins to help, sliding a few scraps of parchment closer. “Where do you want them?”

“Um, here, put the elvish ones over there. I’ll take anything in westron—oh for goodness sakes, the paper isn’t going to bite you just because it’s written in another language.”

Gimli looks up from the document dangling down between two of his fingers, tossing it in the general direction of the elvish pile.

“You don’t know that,” he says.

They work together quietly, occasionally trading documents or bumping elbows, saying _here_ or _thank you_ and very little else. Bilbo is quick to give up on crouching and settles cross-legged on the floor, and a moment later Gimli does the same. He watches as Gimli begins to roll scrolls towards the correct piles instead of neatly placing them aside, which should do little more than exasperate Bilbo but serves to only amuse him instead.

“Listen,” Gimli says, his voice loud in the empty room, resonating off the stone walls and making Bilbo jump. “Sorry, that I was a git earlier.”

Bilbo looks up. Gimli, to his credit, does look properly humbled, scratching at the back of his neck and reluctant to meet Bilbo’s eyes. “I… I wasn’t allowed to go, you know. On the quest.”

Bilbo glances down at his hands. His palms are dusty and there’s ink spotted along his fingertips, a wide smudge marking the inside of his thumb. “Well, I’m sorry that you were left behind, but that’s certainly not my fault.”

“I know. It’s just— Thorin said no because I was too young to sign the contract, but then they go and bring you along, and you don’t even have a beard yet!”

Bilbo tucks his hands beneath his legs, leveling Gimli with what he hopes to be a very unimpressed stare. “Beard or no, I’ll have you know I’m considered middle-aged by hobbit standards.”

Gimli tilts his head, squinting at Bilbo like he’s trying to puzzle something out. “…Twenty?”

“Very flattering, but I most definitely do not look as young as twenty.”

“Hard to tell, what with your face so bare.”

“You’re exaggerating. Kili’s over seventy and has nothing more than fuzz on his cheeks.”

Gimli cracks a smile, reaching up to tug at one of the thick braids his own beard has been parted into. “Calling it ‘fuzz’ is generous. He once tried to shave me in my sleep, did you know?”

“No, but I imagine it resulted in a bit of shouting, and possible death threats.” Bilbo shakes his head. “I’ll never understand the obsession your lot have with hair.”

“You have hair on your feet,” Gimli says, pointing. Bilbo’s toes twitch. “That’s far stranger.”

“Please, dwarves are practically covered! Face, chest, stomach, legs—”

Gimli interrupts him with a burst of laughter, almost doubling over. “And what naked dwarf have you been getting an eyeful of, then?”

“Well I—I traveled with thirteen of them! For _months!_ I’ve had enough of an eyeful to last me for the rest of my life after that!”

“Hmm…” Gimli’s outright smirking now, casting Bilbo a sidelong glance. Bilbo puffs up and looks back down, rifling through the papers in his hands with a bit more zeal than necessary. 

Together they finish gathering the rest of the documents, the silence between them easing into a comfortable, natural lull. The spell is only broken when Gimli pushes himself to his feet, extending a hand down to Bilbo. He waits for Bilbo to accept the gesture rather than just hauling him up, which is really rather polite for a dwarf, Bilbo thinks.

“You never said how old you actually are,” Gimli says. 

“Fifty-one,” Bilbo says primly, bending down to gather up one of the piles and placing it onto the cart. It’s still far from being properly organized, but that will be a task for later.

“I’m sixty-three,” Gimli says.

“Ah.”

“So I’m older than you.”

“Yes?”

“But still younger.”

“It would seem so.”

Gimli narrows his eyes. Bilbo shrugs, his nonchalance enough to make Gimli snort out a second laugh. 

Gimli hovers for the next hour, taking files off to wherever Bilbo points him and restocking his supplies until they’re next to bursting. Bilbo suspects he’s nicking things from other dwarves in the area, but decides to cling to ignorance rather than confront him. He’s waving Gimli off soon enough, telling him that they’ll worry about getting everything back in its proper place tomorrow, that there’s little point in starting a job they can’t finish now.

Despite his words Bilbo continues to work long after Gimli leaves, trying to take comfort in the familiar pattern of his translations, making a half-hearted attempt to pair up a few of the documents before heading off to bed. His temper flairs every now and then when Bilbo comes across a paper he can’t remember ever reading, his lips moving as he translates the words in his head and whispers their meaning aloud. He’s spent many nights in Bag End just like this, pouring over maps or picking through the elvish books his mother left him until finding the rare few that had been put away for so long he had nearly forgotten they were there at all. It was a rare treat, reading those, being able to experience them again as if it were the first time. 

The memory doesn’t help, serves to only add to his irritation and send a new wave of homesickness licking at his heels. Bilbo marks his spot in an order form, gathers up his things and blows out the candles before stepping out into the hall.

Bilbo’s room isn’t far, but as he begins to walk he finds that he has very little desire to actually return just yet. He wanders off down a hallway he hasn’t yet had the chance to explore, stealing one of the torches off the walls just in case it takes him to a barren section of Erebor. He feels like a young boy again, running off to explore the woods around his home, hoping to come across elves or the tree people his mother told him stories of.

He comes to a path that must wind around the perimeter of the mountain, the space becoming more and more open the further he walks thanks to the wide windows that have been cut into the walls, so tall that Bilbo could easily hop over the ledge that divides them from the floor. The moon is full but the night is cloudy, and every now and again a shaft of silver light will flash across the ground and illuminate his way. Bilbo stops to look outwards, finding a wide view of the slowly emerging Dale, speckled torches outlining the shapes of houses and roads, the lake gleaming darkly in the distance. 

He jumps and nearly drops his torch at the sound of heavy boots resonating through the hall, turning just in time to catch a glimpse of a tall figure with dark hair disappearing around the corner. 

“Thorin?” He calls.

The sound stops and Bilbo rushes forward, his bare feet slapping against the ground. He darts around the wall to find Thorin waiting for him, his face drawn and white in the moonlight.

“Master Baggins,” he says. “What are you doing awake at this hour?”

Bilbo looks about, finding an empty hook on the wall to slot his torch into, busying himself in the hopes of getting his entirely unnecessary giddiness under control. “I could ask you the same.”

“I’m…” Thorin pauses, coughing softly into his hand. “There are things on my mind. I’m trying to clear my head.”

He says it simply enough, but his hesitance strikes Bilbo as peculiar, stirring up a suspicion that Bilbo sets aside to investigate later.

“I see,” Bilbo offers lamely. Thorin grunts an affirmative, and for a moment something flickers across his face, an emotion that Bilbo can’t place, gone so quickly he thinks he may have only imagined it.

Thorin rolls his shoulders, lifting his brows in a pointed look, and it takes Bilbo a moment to realize that he hasn’t answered Thorin’s question.

“Oh!” Bilbo says. “I was just finishing off a translation.” Bilbo waves his hand through the air, rushing on before Thorin can ask for details. “Nothing that important, even, I just lost track of the time. It’s been a very long while since I’ve had the opportunity to read elvish, did you know? Now that I have the chance again I can hardly seem to make myself stop.”

Thorin has a tendency of scowling whenever the word ‘elf’ is uttered in his presence, but Bilbo’s ramblings seem to amuse him more than they annoy him. Thorin shakes his head, his eyes lingering on Bilbo even as he moves towards the window.

“Balin has been pleased with your work,” he says. 

Bilbo smiles, stepping forward so he’s standing at Thorin’s side, dropping his items onto the ledge and rotating his wrist. “I’m just glad that I can be of some use.”

“You’re always of use.”

Thorin’s voice remains flat, tired, as if he’s commenting on something he has no real interest in. It’s a peculiar habit of his, Bilbo’s come to notice, offering compliments as though they mean nothing. Had he not known Thorin as well, he would suspect that he was only placating him.

“To think the dwarf that called me a grocer when we first met would come to think so highly of me,” Bilbo teases. Thorin doesn’t move but his gaze drifts down towards Bilbo, considering him thoughtfully before replying.

“I have been known to be wrong,” he says.

“Oh?”

Thorin smiles. It’s small and short-lived, hardly anything more than a strained twist of his lips.

“Occasionally,” he says. It sounds more like a confession than a joke.

Bilbo looks at Thorin, taking in the weak slope of his shoulders, the waxy pallor of his skin and the swollenness of his eyes. In truth, Bilbo can hardly remember the last time Thorin appeared well rested, thinking back to the brief sightings he’s managed to catch of Thorin over the past few weeks. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo says. “Are you all right?”

Thorin doesn’t flinch at Bilbo’s question, but his entire demeanor shifts, his grounded stillness becoming brittle.

He turns to Bilbo, his eyes so dim in the dark they seem nearly colourless. 

“Why are you asking me that?”

_Because I don’t think you are. Because you would never just come out and say it, would you?_

“Because I want to know the answer.”

A muscle twitches in Thorin’s jaw. Bilbo doesn’t know if it’s from the hesitant pull of a smile or the frustrated clench of teeth.

“You have a tendency to speak in riddles, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo’s laughter, though not entirely humourless, sounds dry even to his own ears.

“Forgive me for not fully adopting the blunt mannerisms of dwarves. Would it be more clear if I asked you when you last slept?”

Thorin snorts. His dismissal is enough to reignite Bilbo’s temper from earlier.

“Sleeplessness has affected my line for generations,” Thorin says, like Bilbo’s just being dramatic, like it’s fine.

And, if Bilbo is being very honest, most of the time it is. While traveling on the road Thorin would often stay up through the night, smoking his pipe or dragging a whetstone over his sword, sometimes tromping off into the bush and returning with small, half rotted log for whittling. More than once Bilbo attempted to sit up with him, watching as Thorin turned scraps of birch or pine between his steady hands, the blade of his short knife flashing in the warm light of the fire. Bilbo would awake the next morning lying on his own bedroll, and sometimes there would be a small wooden figure of a bird or hare sitting next to his head, watching over him as he slept. 

Thorin’s bouts with sleeplessness were typically brief affairs, rarely lasting more than three days. On that third night Thorin would all but collapse with exhaustion, burrowing into his bedroll as if it were a mattress stuffed with goose feathers, asleep before the discussion of whose turn it was to keep watch could even begin.

But entering the mountain changed Thorin. Bilbo remembers the long hours Thorin spent looking for the arkenstone, the bleary haze that dulled his sharp eyes and the dark circles that gnawed at the skin beneath them. Thorin’s rest came in rare, fitful bursts, and Bilbo noticed that when sleep threatened to overtaken him while in the treasury Thorin would drag his fingers back through his hair and pull, pinch at the inside of his arms whenever his eyelids began to droop.

“I think it’s of some concern,” Bilbo says, his voice quiet, gentle.

The soft line of Thorin’s shoulders tightens. His lips move but don’t fully part, and he stares instead of speaks.

“… What?” Bilbo asks.

“I was wondering if I should be the one saying that to you.”

“Oh, don’t change the subject,” Bilbo says, snapping now, all but giving up on reigning in the prickling frustration that’s clung to him for weeks. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Are you certain? You look… pale.” Thorin steps forward, reaching out as if he means to lay his palm against Bilbo’s shoulder or cup his cheek, but his arm pauses in the air and falls before the motion is completed. 

Bilbo follows the line of Thorin’s arm, focuses on his hands, the heavy rings on his forefinger and thumb, the dirt that’s been worked deep into his knuckles, too ingrained from hours spent at the forge to ever be scrubbed clean. There’s a warm, skittering feeling huddled beneath Bilbo’s ribs that he doesn’t know what to do with, but it keeps him from saying, _no_. He doesn’t tell Thorin that he wants to go home, doesn’t ask after the escort he was promised or admit that it feels like he’s suffocating here, cut off from the world beneath layers of stone with no grass beneath his feet or yellow light to greet him in the morning when he wakes.

“I haven’t been going outside much,” Bilbo tells him instead. “And, well, there aren’t any windows in my room, so—”

“Would you like there to be?”

“Ah… what?”

“Windows.”

“Thorin, surely you’re not about to go and start knocking holes in Erebor’s walls.”

“Your room can be changed,” Thorin says, speaking with the slow kind of patience he sometimes uses with Kili when he thinks the boy is being a little daft. 

“Oh,” Bilbo pauses. “Well, I wasn’t actually asking—”

“I know.” What may be the hint of a smile touches the hard shape of Thorin’s mouth. “I’ll have someone see to it tomorrow.”

Bilbo is grateful that the light is dim enough to shadow his face and hide the flush rising along his cheeks. He manages to choke out a thank you, entirely bewildered as to how his needling at Thorin’s wellbeing has warped into a discussion about bedrooms instead.

Thorin nods, a stilted, jerking motion. 

“It’s late. You—we should retire,” Thorin says, his voice suddenly clipped and distant, any warmth vanishing as his previous tension seems to return to him in a rush. He turns his body away from Bilbo, moonlight flashing across his face as he retreats, and Bilbo is almost bold enough to do what Thorin could not, to reach out and touch him, take hold of Thorin’s wrist and dig his fingers in deep and keep him there.

Bilbo steps forward, following after Thorin even as his fingers twitch with indecision. Thorin blinks down at him, a question forming in his shuttered eyes, but Bilbo isn’t interested in that, studying instead the messy braid drifting along his cheek, the closed stance of his body, the awkward fall of his arms against his sides, hands curling into fists and relaxing again, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them.

He doesn’t look like himself. He looks almost small, unsettled and doubtful and—

 _Lost,_ Bilbo realizes.

The thought settles inside of Bilbo, eases some of the pressure behind his eyes and loosens the barbed knot that’s been sitting in his stomach, makes him feel both sad and comforted at the same time. 

Maybe Thorin doesn’t know what he’s doing in Erebor, either. Maybe he’s alone, too.

Thorin crosses his arms, closes off entirely, and Bilbo misses his chance to reach out. The space between them seems like it’s miles wide, impossible to cross as they are now. Bilbo tells himself that it’s fine, that he needs to take little steps anyways. Thorin recoils at sympathy, will only withdraw further if Bilbo continues to pester him. 

It’s the right choice. _It is._ But Bilbo still feels like a coward when crosses his hands behind his back, palm over palm.

“Goodnight,” Bilbo says, quickly adding, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Thorin blinks at him, says “Yes,” clearly because he’s startled and not because he means it, but Bilbo doesn’t mind. Thorin holds firm to his word, even over small things.

It’s progress, of sorts. Bilbo doesn’t yet have the words to tell Thorin it’s all right, that fumbling won’t always lead towards a fall, but he has the time to find them, determined now not to flee Erebor until he does. He hasn’t followed Thorin this long only to stand by and watch him crumble now. Bilbo’s home isn’t going anywhere, no matter how much he longs for his bright round door. The Shire will wait for him.

It’s a good reason to stay, Bilbo decides, a solid one. And that alone will carry him through.

Bilbo gathers his things and takes back his torch, giving Thorin a bow and a nod before leaving. It only strikes him later as he settles into bed that he never heard the sound of Thorin’s heavy boots departing in the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely happy with this chapter, but I think I need to wash my hands of it. Up next: Thorin's point of view!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: References to suicide, a possibly triggering injury (see the additional note at the bottom for a more detailed description).

Thorin spends the night alone, dozing for a short time in his chair by the fire before jolting awake, his chest heaving and blood pounding in his ears. He can’t remember dreaming, doesn’t know why he’s taken to waking lately as though he’s breaking free from a nightmare, with his heart hammering and mouth dry.

He pinches his fingers into the corners of his aching eyes, leaves them there until the pressure building beneath his ribs begins to ease, until he can inhale without the air catching in his lungs. He draws his hand downwards, scrubbing at his jaw, his beard prickling against his palm. There’s enough there to grab and pull, and Thorin knows if he only went a week without reaching for a razor he would soon be able to manage a short braid.

The window is open, curtains glowing in the early morning light and billowing inwards with the wind. Thorin’s head lolls against the back of his chair as he watches the material flutter and snap about through heavily lidded eyes. His neck is stiff, his shoulder blades drawn together and pulled tight. A headache lurks at the base of his skull, and Thorin is tempted to skip breakfast all together, thinking of the plush pillows and untouched blankets waiting for him in the next room, tempted by the fickle promise of rest they offer.

But Thorin’s schedule barely allows him the time to eat without willingly skipping meals, and there is a counsel meeting he must attend directly after that he’ll surely miss if he does by some miracle succeed in falling asleep.

There’s also the promise he made to Bilbo only hours ago, and that more than anything is what needles at Thorin. Bilbo would forgive his absence, he’s sure, would perhaps even be pleased to learn that Thorin took the opportunity to sleep. But Thorin wants to see him, regrets how little he’s been in Bilbo’s presence over the past month. Bilbo will be gone from the mountain soon enough, guided back to his beloved Shire where he will stay, safe and happy in his cozy smial. Thorin isn’t fool enough to hold to the hope that Bilbo will visit. He had been so reluctant to join their quest, and that was before he faced the exhaustion of travel and danger, accusations of betrayal and near-death at the hands of a friend. 

There’s a knock at the door, stirring Thorin from his brooding thoughts, making him twitch.

“Enter,” Thorin says, making no effort to gentle his tone.

The door rattles. 

“You’ve bolted it,” Dis calls out.

Thorin sinks further into his chair. “Then go away.”

“Piss off, brother. Let me in.”

Dis looks him up and down when he opens the door, her arms crossed and hip cocked. Her expression offers him nothing, but her clever eyes narrow and bore into him. Dis does not have Thorin’s height, standing only as tall as Kili with narrow shoulders and a thin waist. But she has the same unflinching presence of their mother, and if Thorin were a lesser dwarf he would have already ducked his head and averted his gaze.

“It’s early,” Thorin says, as though that should still matter to him. He steps aside and Dis brushes by him, her long gown flowing like water around her ankles.

“I’m out of pipeweed,” she says. “It’s a pressing concern.”

Dis has never truly shared his fondness of smoking, but every now and again the urge seems to strike her. Thorin has a pipe set aside that he doesn’t use, that he carved one night in a fit of frustrated boredom when sleep lurked just beyond his reach. It’s solid at the bowl but brittle along the stem, the texture of the wood uneven thanks to his shaking hands. It’s not ugly, but so plain that it might as well be. When he gives it to Dis she turns it over between her long fingers, looking down at it thoughtfully and making no remark about the shoddy craftsmanship. 

“Here,” Thorin says, tossing her the matches after he finishes lighting his own pipe, standing by the window. The smoke is scratchy in his throat and heavy on his tongue, makes his already sour tasting mouth feel like it’s been stuffed with wet cotton. But the motion is a soothing one, gives him something to do when the silence between them stretches. Dis leans her hip against the windowsill as she tries to pack down her bowl. She wrinkles her nose and lifts her eyes to Thorin, offers him a pitying look.

Thorin takes the pipe from her with a roll of his eyes, stamping the tobacco instead. 

“You were always awful at this,” he says. 

“I can’t be perfect at everything, now can I?”

Thorin glances at her. Dis is peering around his room, taking in the scattered documents, the gloves left on the mantle, the cloak thrown over the back of a chair. Thorin is not staying in the King’s quarters. He still can’t seem to bring himself to venture into his grandfather’s old rooms, cautious of the memories they offer, the secrets they hold that he thinks he would just as rather go on not knowing. It’s a task he’s left to Dis and Balin, trusting them to salvage anything important, bring whatever they see fit to his attention. Aged tapestries have been stripped from the walls for restoration and hidden jewels were recovered from carved out hollows in the floors. Both Thorin’s coronation crown and the lighter piece he wears about daily were found there, as was the dark blue cape draped over his shoulders, the simple ring on his finger. 

Thorin hadn’t wanted any of them. He had loved Thror, loved him more than even his own father, but he recoiled at the idea of donning Thror’s old clothes, styling himself in the mad king’s image.

It was Balin who convinced him otherwise, who took Thorin’s arm and led him aside, his voice so horribly kind when he said it would be better for Thorin to pay homage to those who came before him, that a refusal to wear his grandfather’s crown would only stand as an insult towards Thror in the eyes of their people.

“Your grandfather was a good king before the madness took him,” Balin had said. “Wear them for who he was, lad, not for who he became.”

Thorin tilts his head back, breathing a stream of smoke out towards the sky. The view from the room he’s taken isn’t nearly as splendid as it would be were he in the King’s chambers. It doesn’t overlook the mountain’s grand entrance, the rocky slope that leads down towards Dale and the shimmering lake that sits beyond. Far below him are the stables, and through his window Thorin can observe a wide and rounded off alcove with a shallow path that leads towards a cleared out and fenced off section of the forest, where the horses can be walked to and exercised.

“The hobbit needs new accommodations,” Thorin says, watching as a young dwarf maiden guides a speckled pony onto the yard, coaxing it along when it digs its hooves in and tries to be stubborn.

“Oh?”

“A room with windows. Sunlight. Will that be a problem?”

Dis sets her pipe aside on the ledge of the window, exhaling with a soft cough. She gathers her dark hair between her hands, dragging it over her shoulder and quickly weaving it into a thick, untied braid. She’s been in charge of housing ever since she arrived, making up a manifest as she goes and recording what families have settled where and the skills they can offer, what districts of Erebor still remain unusable and which are the top priority to fix. 

“It shouldn’t be,” she says after a moment’s consideration. “Is there any problem with the room he’s been given, apart from the lack of windows?”

“I doubt it,” Thorin mutters, finishing off his pipe with a deep lungful of smoke. He clears his throat, says his next words a little more loudly. “Not that he’s mentioned.”

Dis grins, as sly as a fox, begins to say something else but halts mid-sentence. Thorin frowns at her, watching as she pushes herself up to the tips of her of her toes, leaning out the window at her waist. When he follows her gaze downwards Thorin sees that a stable-boy is coaxing Dain’s boar out from the stables. The beast is snuffling along the ground as it lumbers forward, grunting as it goes. It’s a head taller than Thorin, an imposing creature with long, yellowing tusks and covered in wiry brown hair. 

Dis laughs at the sight of it. “Dain didn’t truly ride that into battle, did he?”

“Of course he did,” Thorin sighs. He grabs hold of the back of Dis’ dress, gives her pleated skirt a light tug. “You’re going to topple out the window if you lean any farther.”

Dis snorts, smacking Thorin’s arm away sharply before he can retreat. “I’m no little maiden anymore, brother dear. Far from it. Your coddling is misplaced.”

“I don’t coddle.”

“You do. My sons agree.” Dis flattens her feet back against the ground, turning towards Thorin. “Speaking of Dain—”

“We’re not speaking of Dain.”

“Are we ever going to discuss why you’re angry with him?”

“I don’t know.” Thorin tips his pipe, tapping out the ashes for the wind to gather and sweep away. “Are we?”

“He saved your life.”

The tension returns to Thorin’s shoulders, pulling taught like a cord. “Did he tell you that?”

“No, Dwalin did.”

Thorin bristles, fighting against the wave of anger that threatens to overtake him. There’s no justification to it, not when all Dwalin has done is speak the truth.

Rumours describe Azog’s death as a shared victory, weaving a story that places Thorin and Dain against the pale orc together, standing shoulder to shoulder in their gleaming armour, weapons held high and eyes alight with bloodlust and the prospect of victory.

But that isn’t how it happened. Thorin confronted Azog alone, spurred on by his own arrogance and hatred, his desire to see the monster crushed into the mud. And Azog beat him down, knocked his sword aside and broke his shield, heaved Thorin up by his hair and tried to gut him with the rusted spike driven through the stump of his arm.

Dain burst through the chaos of the battle, his helmet and steed gone, limping heavily as he rushed forward, driving his sword into Azog’s back, pulling it free and hacking at his legs as Azog struggled to turn and face him. The orc bellowed when he fell, releasing Thorin as his knees struck the ground.

Thorin doesn’t know which one of them killed the monster. What he remembers comes back to him in blurred pieces, jagged shards overlaid in black and red. He remembers fumbling for his dagger, the weight of it in his hand, his fingers numb and slick with blood and slipping over the hilt. He attacked with no precision, stabbing at Azog’s chest and face and shoulders, slashing at his throat. Dain did the same, though he stopped before Thorin did, had to take his cousin by the arms and tell him it was finished long after the creature had stopped moving. 

“I’ve never liked Dain,” Thorin says. Azog had been his to kill. He should have chopped his head off, should have mounted it atop of Erebor for all to see. “Fighting by his side doesn’t change that.”

“You should give him command of the quarry.”

Thorin stiffens. “I thought you came here to enjoy a pipe, not to talk politics.”

“I don’t see what’s keeping me from doing both. You can’t restore Erebor alone. You need to delegate.”

“I have been.”

“Not enough.” 

“Dain already has too much sway over our people.”

Dis scoffs, her temper sparking, hot and sudden. “He doesn’t want your throne, Thorin!”

“That’s not what concerns me.”

“Then what does?”

Thorin’s fingers spasm, his empty pipe creaking beneath them. 

“Thorin?”

“He makes me look incompetent. Weak. You’ve read Nori’s reports. You know what people have been saying.”

Dis shakes her head, waving his concern aside. 

“I wouldn’t put much sway in the opinion of gossiping soldiers. Dain is only here to offer you support. Guidance, if you weren’t too stubborn to take it.”

And Thorin knows that, he _knows_ , and yet each time he extends his hand to Dain it feels like a defeat, as though he might as well be bending the knee before him.

“You can’t send him away yet,” Dis says. “I know you want to, but it’s too soon. The mountain isn’t stable, and it would make you seem… rash.”

“You mean foolish.” 

Dis doesn’t correct him and Thorin bows his head, a smile twisting over his lips, a low laugh rumbling in his throat.

“Soft or stupid. Are those my choices?”

Dis leans close, reaching over, and for a moment Thorin thinks she’s going to take hand but she only pulls his pipe away.

“You’re going to break it,” she says, quiet and kind, and Thorin can’t look at her, doesn’t know what to do when Dis offers him sympathy in place of her usual curt bluntness. “Being soft isn’t the same as being weak.”

Thorin laughs again, louder, rougher. “To your eyes. Not everyone sees it as such.”

And that, Thorin thinks, is precisely the problem. Everyone is watching, waiting to see if their new king will flourish or fall, and it frightens him, not knowing which to expect himself. 

 

 

Thorin changes into fresh clothes after Dis leaves, having already bathed the night before. He stands half naked before a stone basin, splashing water over his face and leaving his hands pressed tight against his closed eyes, hoping to wash away the gritty feeling sitting beneath his lids. 

He drops his arm, shaking his damp and tangled hair away from his face, looking down at the scar Azog has left him. It begins at his waist, winding upwards towards his ribs, the flesh still raw, puckered and pink. Thorin rests his hand just above the jut of his hipbone, rolling his thumb against the edge of the scar. There’s no sensation of warmth or touch, not until he presses harder, digs his nail in.

It’s healing wrong, Thorin knows, the torn muscle twisting beneath the skin as it knits itself back together. It aches when he can’t sleep, when he lifts his arm too high or bends down too far. During his recovery Oin spent hours each day scraping off festering skin and rot, relying on a stinging salve that Gandalf provided to fight against the infection that couldn’t be cut away.

Thorin raises his head. The eyes that meet his own through the looking glass are weary and bruised, better suited for the face of a beggar than a king. He touches his chin, fingers drifting through the coarse hair of his lengthening beard.

He should leave it alone, he knows. The questions haven’t come yet but they will soon enough, inquires as to why the king still feels a need to sheer himself, displaying his shame and grief for all to see. Erebor has been retaken, his people returning to the mountain in droves. The city will prosper again, in time. There’s no purpose to wallowing in misery when everything Thorin has sought to achieve is here and laid out at his fingertips. 

But Thorin doesn’t feel triumphant. He had, on the night of his coronation, bowed low before the statue of Durin, his family standing behind him and the Company that followed him halfway across the world looking on with pride. But over the weeks his joy has faded. Thorin was blinded by his conquest, never looking beyond the mountain, never considering what was to come after. He had not governed the Blue Mountains alone, had Dis and Balin and half-a-dozen other dwarves with him, all sharing the duties. Erebor is different. No matter who he assigns what task to it all comes back to him to oversee and manage, and it will be his problem to solve if something goes wrong.

He had not expected the task to be easy, but neither did he think that ruling Erebor would be a greater challenge than fighting a dragon for it.

Thorin reaches for his razor, turning it over between his fingers, watching as light glints across the blade. He’s not in mourning, not anymore, but he still feels heavy, restless, as though all he has accomplished is still but a moments away from being torn from him. 

 

 

He’s freshly shaven when he meets his nephews, finding them together in his halls, huddling outside the door that leads to the dining area. They’re whispering to each other and making quick, cutting signs with their hands. Their bodies block most of the motions but Thorin catches a word here and there, _no_ and _stupid_ and _uncle_.

The simple normalcy of the sight eases something inside of him, and Thorin allows himself a moment, clearing his throat loudly, biting back a smirk as he watches the two of them jump.

“Thorin—” Kili begins, his eyes wide. Fili is quick to step forward next to his brother, knocking their elbows together.

“Morning, uncle. You look very… um, kingly, today.”

Thorin crosses his arms, waits just long enough to make the boys sweat.

“I’m not going to ask,” he declares.

“Oh good,” Kili says, slumping with relief, disappearing into the next room without another word. Thorin catches Fili’s shoulder before he can follow.

“Should I be asking?”

Fili shakes his head, and there’s no guilt hiding behind his grin, no hesitation when he says, “It’s fine.”

Thorin eyes him and Fili lifts his brows, rolls his shoulder beneath Thorin’s grip.

“Really.”

“You’ll tell me if that changes,” Thorin says, not bothering to make it a question.

“Yes uncle.” Fili sighs, though he has the good sense to look embarrassed when Thorin sends him away with a pat of his hand.

Thorin has far more pressing matters to concern himself with than what secrets his nephews are keeping. They are dwarves grown, after all, and he trusts them to not dig themselves into a trouble too deep that they can’t climb their way back out.

“Dain sent a messenger,” Dis tells him after he sits at the table, looking pleasantly surprised. She had been skeptical, earlier, when he told her he would see her at breakfast. “He won’t be joining us. He’s trying to arrange for an extra shipment of grain to arrive with the next order from the Iron Hills.”

Thorin nods, unsure of his feelings on that. The food is undoubtedly needed, but it pains him, having to rely on his cousin for so much of their basic provisions. 

Strangely enough it’s Bilbo who’s late to arrive this morning. He looks ruffled when he finally pushes through the door, unkempt and drowsy, as though he’d just dragged himself from bed moments before. His hair is tousled and he’s wearing his trousers in a dwarvish fashion, long with the cuffs falling over his thin ankles. But he smiles at Thorin when he sits, a small dimple curving at his cheek, his round eyes bright and more yellow-green than blue in the soft light of the torches.

“Good morning,” Bilbo says, and Dwalin kicks at Thorin from beneath the table, the steel-capped toe of his boot jabbing against his ankle. Thorin blinks, fingers twitching against the tabletop as he inclines his head in greeting.

Had he been staring? His eyes flicker towards Dwalin, who all but confirms it with a sidelong glance and sly smirk, partly hidden beneath the fall of his beard. Thorin looks to Dis next, reaching for a pitcher of watered-down ale to shelter his actions. His sister is more open with her inquiry, sitting with her body angled towards Thorin, a hand tucked beneath her chin, her eyes dark and scrutinizing until her attention is drawn away by her sons, oblivious and bickering down towards the end of the table.

Thorin clenches his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache, the back of his neck prickling. Neither Dis nor Dwalin would dare ask in public, but Thorin is already dreading the moment he finds himself alone with either of them. Whatever his relationship to Bilbo may be it’s a personal matter, and Thorin hardly knows how to properly define it even to himself, let alone his nosey family.

“My brother tells me you’d like a new room,” Dis says, shifting in her seat, peering around Thorin to look at Bilbo. “Something with windows?”

Bilbo nods, glancing up quickly as he pours himself a cup of tea. 

“I don’t want to be of any trouble,” he says, offering Dis a sheepish smile. “I know you’re all busy enough already without having to worry about me.”

“It’s no trouble at all. I think I may already know where to put you. There are rooms built along the edges of the mountain that were once meant to house personal guests of the king. You’ll have plenty of daylight there, and quite a bit more space.”

Thorin pauses, his fork hovering halfway between his plate and mouth. He knows the apartments Dis is speaking of. They’re located just outside of his own halls.

“I don’t need anything extravagant,” Bilbo is saying, looking flustered. The sight of his reddening ears and fluttering hands is strangely charming. For all his fussiness Bilbo is a modest creature, Thorin’s come to realize, taking enjoyment in simple comforts and not seeming to know what to do when presented with extravagance. 

“Any room with windows will be much of the same,” Thorin finds himself saying. “They would receive little use anyways. Dwarves don’t share your people’s affinity with the sun.”

“If you’re sure,” Bilbo says. And he smiles, nothing more than a small tilt of his lips, but it warms Thorin all the same, makes him want to keep it, somehow, to brush his hand against Bilbo’s face and feel the tender curve of his mouth beneath his fingers.

Such thoughts remain with him long after the meal ends and Thorin departs for his counsel meeting. Balin and Fili walk at his side and Dwalin trails a step behind. Dis should be with them but isn’t, begged off with some excuse that Thorin only half listened to, distracted by the pull of guilt and desire warring within him.

It was a mistake, lying with Bilbo that night. Thorin had been reaching for something he could not dedicate himself to, indulging in Bilbo’s softness, his bright eyes and sharp smile, the breathy sounds he made when Thorin took him into his hand and stroked. 

But even knowing this Thorin can’t bring himself to fully regret his actions. He had grown too distracted afterwards to allow himself to touch Bilbo again, and would not dare to presume he has the right to now, not after everything that has happened between them. When Bilbo leaves Thorin will at least have one memory of them together to warm him at night, and he is shamefully, selfishly glad for it. 

“Your Grace?”

Thorin blinks. Balin is looking at him expectantly from across the table, and it takes Thorin a moment to piece together what he’d said, to spool back the yarn of his memory until it catches against the counsel’s first declared topic of discussion. 

“Yes,” Thorin says, clearing his throat. “Yes, go on.”

It’s becoming a nuisance, his wandering mind. Thoughts have been striking him in hazy, flittering fragments as of late, liquidizing and slipping through his fingers just as he tries to take hold.

The simple matters are tended to first, topics ranging from the storage of food to the ever-growing headcount of new arrivals. They sort through the updated manifest that Dis has provided, discussing what skills their people have to offer, what trades they need to encourage and which they can do without. 

It’s when the subject of Dale is broached that the tone of the meeting changes, the air thickening with a tension that they all pretend isn’t there.

“I question if Erebor is being too generous in this matter,” a dwarf lord named Darlo says. “What concern is Dale’s wellbeing to us? Its ruler—”

“King,” Balin cuts in, smiling kindly and offering no apology for his interruption. “The man Bard is being hailed as king.”

Darlo scoffs, stubbornly unimpressed. “Its _king_ is little more than a thief, marching up to the mountain and seeking to claim Erebor’s riches as his own, demanding _payment_ before a deal had been struck.”

“Bard did kill Smaug,” Fili says, his voice soft, meek.

From across the room General Biris cups a hand to his ear, his chair creaking as he leans forward. “Beg pardon, Prince Fili, what was that you said?” 

Fili flushes and Thorin’s hands clench into fists where they sit on his lap, hidden from view. 

“I said Bard killed Smaug,” Fili repeats, louder now. His face is still red but he doesn’t shy away or sink into his seat when Darlo turns on him, frowning. “And the dragon ravaged Laketown just as it did the mountain. Compensation was not an unreasonable request.”

“Yes, _Laketown_ , not Dale,” Darlo says, speaking with an exaggerated slowness.

They would not dare act like this if it was Thorin who’d said it, knowing better than to play such games with the king. But Fili is young, inexperienced to their judging eyes, and so they slight him with petty jabs, shielding their insults behind the defense of misinterpretation. Were Thorin to speak out he’d be met with stunned looks, chiding explanations. _Oh, Your Highness, I of course didn’t mean it like that…_

They seek to raise his ire, to make him lash out. They want him to look like a fool.

“Only when the dragon became a threat to his own kind did brave King Bard decide to act,” Darlo continues. “He offered our people no help in breaching the mountain, and even sought to prevent the Company from entering at all.”

“Our people?” Thorin cuts in. “You seem to have forgotten that the dwarves of the Iron Hills also offered no assistance until the mountain was reclaimed.” Thorin tilts his head, watching as Darlo stiffens in his seat. “You were at the meeting I called, Lord Darlo, were you not? Before my Company formed, when I asked who else would join me on my quest?”

Darlo’s mouth open and shuts, gaping like hooked fish dragged up from the sea. He looks quickly to Dain, who is watching Thorin thoughtfully, his brow smooth and his hands folded loosely before him. He offers no argument or defense, and Thorin grits his teeth, pushes on.

“We will keep assisting the city,” he says. “And we must begin perusing trade with Bard’s people with more force. Long ago Erebor and Dale relied on each other greatly. We cannot stand alone and still expect to thrive as we once did.”

A dwarf that Thorin cannot remember the name of clears his throat and pipes up. “Erebor has riches beyond measure, there’s no need to—”

“Riches which must still be divided and returned to their original owners,” Balin says. “The wealth of the Lonely Mountain is not without end, and it will do us little good, hoarding gold and starving together behind our walls. His Majesty is right —the Iron Hills are too distant, we can’t rely on them as our sole supplier.”

“I agree,” Dain says, effectively silencing any further argument from his lords. “The alliance between the Lonely Mountain and Dale is far from stable. This will be an opportunity to strengthen it.”

Thorin steels himself. He won’t have a better opening than this.

“Our reach should extend beyond that,” he says. “I’ve decided to send word to Mirkwood. I intend to hold counsel with King Thranduil and discuss the opening of trade routes with the elves.”

The uproar his words cause is entirely expected, though bracing for it does little to ease the sudden pang of Thorin’s returning headache. Almost every dwarf at the table seems to feel the need to speak out, some even pushing up to their feet, their fists clenched and faces red, betrayal in their eyes.

Dain leans close next to Thorin in order to be heard above the crowd.

“Cousin, are you sure—?”

But Thorin has had enough. He slams his hand flat against the table, his chair scraping out behind him as he stands.

“You forget yourselves.” 

He doesn’t yell. Thorin draws himself up to his full height, rolling back his shoulders and lifting his chin. His crown feels heavy on his head, but the weight grounds him instead of crushes. He keeps his voice low and controlled and deadly serious, and the racket around him falls silent just as quickly as it began.

“Do not think I propose this lightly. I speak only with the best interest of Erebor in mind.”

“Your Grace,” Biris says. “Forgive me, but this is the same elf that turned away while the mountain burned, that imprisoned your Company and sought to loot your home. You… you truly wish to bargain with such a creature?”

“No,” Thorin says, allowing a hint of weariness to curl around the word, hoping to show he’s not wholly unsympathetic to their concerns. “No, I don’t wish it. I have not forgotten what Thranduil has done, nor have I forgiven his transgressions against us. But the matter still stands: we cannot do this alone. My grandfather was wise enough to broker an alliance with the elves—”

“Which they spat upon the day the dragon came!”

Thorin sees Balin shift in his chair, preparing to speak, and rushes on before he can. This is his decision. He must be the one to say it. “We all know the story of King Thror calling Thranduil to Erebor, promising gifts that were then denied to him. I was there to witness it with my own eyes. Our alliance with the elves—it was tarnished, that day.”

A low murmur passes through the room, but Thorin doesn’t wait for another outcry to disrupt what he means to say. 

“I don’t blame King Thror for the actions the elves took when Smaug came,” Thorin says, because surely they are thinking it. “I only wish to be clear in saying that I am not my grandfather, and I will not allow my own feelings towards the elves to squander the state of the mountain. I will speak with King Thranduil, exchange our terms with his, and the matter will be revisited then.”

Thorin nearly adds that they will put the issue to a vote at that time, but he swallows the words down, uncertain of their wisdom. He doesn’t know what’s better, denying those meant to advise him the very voice they offer or allowing them to speak and undo all he means to accomplish. 

“If there are no other matters to attend to, I’ll consider this meeting over.” 

A few sour looks are passed about but no one protests, so Thorin inclines his head and steps away from the table. The signal sets the room into motion as dwarves push themselves up from their seats, bowing to him before they depart, huddling close in quiet conversation the moment they step through the door.

“Bold, cousin,” Dain says. He hasn’t moved from his chair. “Very bold.”

Fili still lingers, looking between Thorin and Dain with uneasy sort of excitement, hoping there’s not about to be a fight and yet wanting to see if it happens. Thorin remembers the feeling, the odd delight that came with seeing his mother or father scold someone. 

“I’ll speak with you later, Fili,” Thorin says, and his nephew shifts his weight but goes without argument. Dain is still looking at Thorin when he turns back to him, as unreadable as always, his expression detached, just shy of amused.

“Bold,” Thorin repeats. “Is that all you have to say?”

Dain chuckles, pushing himself up, his prosthetic foot thudding heavily against the ground as he stands.

“Well, if I must add more —and I mean no offense, Thorin— but I think you grossly undervalue the use that charm can have at these sorts of things.”

“Are you advising I should act more like you?”

“You think me charming? I’m flattered.”

“I think you consider yourself charming.”

Dain laughs at that, a deep and honest and booming sound. He smacks Thorin on the back, as though they are friends. “I suppose I can’t argue.” 

“Was there anything else?”

“You’re making the right decisions, Thorin. Our people are slow to change, but do not let that discourage you.”

Thorin snorts, brushing off Dain’s hand from where it’s moved to settle against his shoulder. “You’re presumptuous.”

Dain shrugs, smiling. “I prefer to think of myself as experienced. I’ve made plenty of decisions that that upset a few lords here and there.”

Thorin’s laughter is nothing like Dain’s, low and dark and utterly devoid of joy. Dain’s mouth clicks shut like a lock, and his expression quickly follows. 

“Don’t compare our situations,” Thorin says. “When has the prosperity of the Iron Hills ever fallen under threat? When were you last forced to turn towards an old enemy for help, to have your people look at you like a traitor, or worse: a hound begging for scraps?”

Thorin closes his eyes, pulling in a deep breath, flexing his fingers.

“It was not my choice to turn the dwarves of Erebor away when the dragon came,” Dain says, quiet but firm. 

“That’s not what we’re discussing.”

“Somehow, I feel like we’re always discussing it.”

“You held to Gror’s decision, even after his passing.”

“I did,” Dain says.

“You feel it was the right decision.”

“I regret that we didn’t do more. We should have.”

Thorin says nothing.

“But yes, it was the right decision. The Iron Hills couldn’t support—”

“Have you spoken to Dis?”

Dain blinks, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic, and Thorin’s glad for it. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to listen to the perfectly sound justification the Iron Hills had to ignore the suffering of his family, to turn away their traumatized and starving kin, sending them out into the world to fend for themselves. 

“I—no,” Dain says. “Not since yesterday. Why?”

“She thinks you should be given charge over the quarry.”

“ _She_ thinks.”

“That’s what I said, and I trust my sister’s judgment. Discuss the matter with her and have someone draw up papers if need be. I’ll look them over.”

He pushes by Dain, heading straight for the door. Dain doesn’t try to stop him, and Thorin doesn’t look back.

Dwalin is waiting outside, leaning back against the opposite wall with his broad arms crossed over his chest. It’s a terrible stance for a member of the King’s Guard to take, casual and undisciplined and it irks Thorin all though it shouldn’t. Dwalin is by all counts a Lord himself and could have easily demanded a position next to his brother on the counsel if he wished for it. But he chooses to stay with Thorin, shadowing his steps and guarding his back, and it feels wrong for Thorin to then turn up his noise and press proper etiquette upon him. 

“Long meeting?” Dwalin says, following Thorin down the hall. Thorin grunts in response.

He wants to break something, wants to pound his fists into the wall until his fingers snap. He wants to go back and take hold of Dain by the collar of his cloak —one he’s undoubtedly had for a years, a gift from his father or mother that’s been kept neatly pressed and tucked away for him in a closet, never to be left behind or traded off for a stale scrap of food— and throw him straight off the mountain. 

The thought detaches, spirals away and warps into another picture entirely, of Bilbo staring up at him, his eyes wide and face pale, dry lips parted and turning blue at the edges. He had been so small beneath Thorin’s hands, his throat soft, fluttering against Thorin’s clenched fingers as he struggled to breathe.

Thorin stops walking. His hand is trembling when he lifts it to his eyes, pressing against them until red smears begin to spot the inside of his lids. His chest feels tight, cramped, his breaths too shallow to fill his lungs.

“Thorin?” Dwalin says.

 _You shouldn’t address me like that,_ Thorin thinks. Not when there are others in risk of overhearing, who will question why Thorin would allow such disrespect, accept such familiarity from his subject.

But he can’t bring himself to say anything. Ridiculous, for Dwalin to call him by anything other than his name. Dwalin, who Thorin has known since he was too small to even properly hold a sword, who had only ever referred to Thorin as _Prince_ as if the title was a shared joke between them.

“Thorin,” Dwalin says again. He’s hovering, now, not touching but close enough for Thorin to prickle at his presence.

“I need air,” Thorin says.

He passes a message along to the first runner he sees, calling off a meeting, pushing back another, trying not to think on how this will make him look when word begins to spread. 

“You don’t need you to come,” Thorin tells Dwalin after they leave the armory, a bow slung over his back, an extra hunting knife tucked beneath his belt. Orcrist hangs from his side, a constant companion, returned to him begrudgingly after the battle by Thranduil’s son.

“Oh?” Dwalin says, his tone light, mockingly innocent. “Is His Majesty allowed to wander alone?” 

The hallway before them is clear. Thorin glances back, and, seeing no one, shifts his weight, leaning to the side and knocking his shoulder against Dwalin’s, hard enough to nearly send him stumbling into the railing.

Dwalin looks at him after regaining his footing, stretching his neck from one side to the other until his spine cracks, his eyebrows raised in question. 

“Stop talking to my sister about me,” Thorin says.

“Is that what you’re all riled up about?”

“I’m not riled.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You’re not denying it, then?”

“Deny speaking to Lady Dis? Why would I? She has all the best gossip, you know.”

The sky is overcast, clouds heavy with snow and hiding the sun from view, but the world still glows winter-bright against Thorin’s weary eyes. He lets Dwalin take the lead, watching as he clomps on ahead, ice crunching beneath his boots, as steady-footed as a mountain goat despite the uneven path. This isn’t the first time Thorin’s wandered out to observe the landscape since his return, but he hasn’t yet had the opportunity to do so with Dwalin at his side. It brings forth a wave of nostalgia, foggy memories of the two of them hunting and exploring, sneaking out from the mountain late at night to sit beneath a canopy of trees, a pipe stuffed with stolen tobacco brought along to be passed back and forth between them.

Trees are scarce, this close to the mountain, burned to ash when the dragon came, but the few that remain have grown strong over the years Smaug spent asleep beneath a sea of gold. Dwalin trods beneath one, flicking a low hanging branch out of the way only to have it snap back and dump a heap of snow onto Thorin’s shoulder, scattering against his face, spilling beneath his cloak and down his collar. Thorin curses, his voice echoing far off into the wilderness, stirring a pair of crows from their roost. They take flight with a squawk as Thorin tries to shake out his tunic, glowering at Dwalin’s back, his friend’s shoulders trembling with restrained laughter.

They come across a fallen pine, cracked at the base with its roots still half buried in the ground. Dwalin steps over it but Thorin walks along the trunk, nudging at broken branches with his boot, pausing when he finds one perhaps twice the length of his arm, wide enough for his hands to spread out flat against it’s weathered top without curling over its edge. 

Since losing his bracer Thorin has often thought of crafting another. It’s dangerous, he knows, becoming reliant on any one tool in battle, but he likes the versatility it offered him, the ability to wield both a sword and axe, to block with his arm and twist away and strike back, quick on his feet, never slowed by the heavy pull of an iron shield.

He plants his heel overtop the log, bearing down until the wood creaks and splinters beneath his weight. Thorin lets out a breath in one long, slow push, his lips twisting. Oak had been a fine material to work with, resilient and strong beneath his hands. Pine too is soft. It won’t make do.

Dwalin’s watching him when he looks up, settled back against a large bolder that’s been pushed off to sit at the side of the path. He tilts his head when Thorin meets his eyes.

Thorin shakes his head. He isn’t being sentimental. That’s not what this is about.

Dwalin snorts, rubbing at his neck, his message as clear as if he’d spoken it aloud: _keep telling yourself that._

Dwalin shifts against the rock, pulling his glove off with his teeth and holding it in his mouth as he digs through his pack. He produces two small apples, one red and one yellow, tossing Thorin the latter. Thorin hops down from the rotting trunk as he plucks the fruit from the air, turning it round between his fingers.

Dwalin spits out the glove and asks, “What’s wrong with you?”

Thorin settles down next to him, crunching into the apple. It’s sour, dry and mealy on his tongue.

“What makes you think something’s wrong?”

Dwalin elbows him, and Thorin clips his tongue with his teeth. “Our burglar’s worried, you know.” 

“He mentioned.”

Dwalin lifts his brows, unflinching when met with Thorin’s glare.

“ _Well._ ”

“Leave it, Dwalin.”

He does, but only for a moment, chewing thoughtfully.

“He’s very taken with you, Master Baggins.”

“I mean it.”

“And you do stare at him like he’s a—”

“I’m going to punch you in the face.”

Dwalin chokes, chuckling around a mouthful of fruit. He kicks at Thorin, wiping the dirty bottom of his boot against the leg of his trousers. 

“You should try,” Dwalin says. “You would have, once.”

“You’ve become much less annoying with age.” Thorin brushes the back of his hand against his knee, sweeping away snow and dirt. “Or so I thought.”

Dwalin yawns, and it’s always been easy, talking to him like this. Even when they were young and Thorin still partially resented Dwalin for his strength and skill with a sword he often found himself saying more than he meant to, revealing little pieces of himself that would then cause him to flinch and bristle and wait for laughter or judgment that never seemed to followed.

Dwalin never expects Thorin to be anything more or less than himself, and so when Thorin suddenly asks, “If I seemed strange to you, would you tell me?” the words come without strain.

If Dwalin finds the question odd he makes no sign of it. “’Course I would.”

“You didn’t, before.”

“Balin beat me to it. He’s better at that kind of thing, anyways.”

“Hm.”

“And I did say something, later. Or don’t you remember?”

Thorin frowns down at his half-eaten apple, trying to pick through the shards of his memory. He does have a vague recollection of quarreling with Dwalin, of striking him, perhaps, or did he only shove him back? Pin him to a wall with his hands clenched into his shirt, gold coins fanning out beneath his boots like soft sand.

Thorin shakes himself. It’s disconcerting, remembering things in such a way, as though he’s recounting details from a story he’s been told and wasn’t actually there to witness.

“… We argued,” Thorin says. Dwalin confirms it with a nod.

“I’m going to ask again,” Dwalin says. “What’s wrong?”

Thorin looks out into the distance, digging a small trench into the snow with the heel of his boot. It’s easy, talking to Dwalin, but harder to admit everything he’s been trying to ignore aloud, to reveal that when he does sleep Thorin still dreams of gold, of rubies and diamonds and the clear shine of the arkenstone that has long since been hidden away. Thorin’s taken to walking the mountain at night to stop himself from going to the treasury, wandering far off into the depths of the Erebor into the abandoned districts and mines just to give his feet somewhere, anywhere else to go.

Thorin doesn’t want to say these things and he doesn’t want to lie, and so he keeps his tongue tucked safely behind his teeth and clings to silence.

Dwalin finishes off his apple, tossing the seedy core out into the bush and wiping his hand clean against his trousers. He leans forward without warning, knocking his brow solidly against the side of Thorin’s temple, and Thorin blinks and his shoulder twitches but he keeps his surprise at bay just enough to stop himself from flinching. A strange feeling twists in Thorin’s chest, sad and longing and content all at once. Dwalin is really nothing like Frerin, but sometimes the casual intimacy of his friendship makes Thorin think of his brother, and with that comes both a warmth and chill. 

“We should go back,” Dwalin says with some reluctance. Thorin nods, pushing himself to his feet and offering Dwalin a hand up. 

They’re greeted at the gate by a fidgeting messenger, undoubtedly placed there and told to wait for the king’s return, scrolls almost spilling from her arms. She nearly drops them when she moves to bow to Thorin as he approaches, her face reddening beneath the thin wisps of her beard, little more that peach fuzz dusting her cheeks.

Thorin shortens his strides, doesn’t make the lass to scurry to keep up with him as she reads through her reports.

The news is what’s to be expected, conformation that Thorin’s pardons were received, new requests for meetings or approval of certain projects, questions pertaining to the state of the treasury and throne room and housing.

It’s only when the messenger begins speaking of the lower furnaces that Thorin pauses, halting mid-step. The messenger passes by him before noticing and quickly doubles back, a scroll slipping from her arms and toppling to the floor.

“What did you just say?”

“A chimney connected to the lower southern forge collapsed just after lunch. Its cap crumbled and—”

“It should have been inspected this morning. Was it skipped?”

“I—I don’t know. The foreman didn’t say.”

Thorin frowns, exchanging a look with Dwalin who only shrugs before bending down to retrieve the lost scroll.

“What _did_ the foreman say?” Thorin asks.

“Only that it should be of no concern.”

“Did he tell you to keep it to yourself?”

The girl hesitates before nodding, looking resolute even through her blush. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“You were right to tell me,” Thorin says. “What’s you name?”

“It’s—it’s Rila, Sire.”

“And you’re under Lir’s supervision?”

Rila nods again, biting her lip.

“Send notice to Lord Balin,” Thorin says. “Tell him what’s happened and that I’ll be late to meet with him.”

“Lord Cador is awaiting your counsel as well, Your Grace.”

“Then have him informed of the same.”

The girl bows and rushes away without another word.

“It could be nothing,” Dwalin says once she’s out of earshot, following Thorin when he cuts down the hallway, moving towards the staircase at the end. 

“Or something,” Thorin says.

There are multiple forges located throughout Erebor, used for not only for crafting weapons and tools but to heat the mountain and warm the water supply that’s drawn up from the earth. The lower southern forge is far from the largest, designed to heat the communal kitchen and surrounding cluster of apartments. But it’s one of the few areas that had survived decades of abandonment with little damage to show for it, that has working chimneys and intact hearths, a large stack of coal sitting in the supply room. Due to this the forge has been run hard over the past month, and Thorin has made himself clear in wanting its maintenance kept in check, for inspections to be preformed twice daily and for any problems concerning its upkeep to be brought directly to his attention.

Forges are kept separate from the rest of the mountain by solid steel doors connected to a pulley system. The only way to lift them is to pull down on a heavy chain with leather grips, and as there is no one else at the ready to do so Thorin and Dwalin take on the task themselves, rushing under before the door falls shut with a resonating clang. The doors can be tied off and kept open, of course, but for safety reasons they’re never left stranded.

A rush of heat is there to greet them and in seconds there’s sweat beading on Thorin’s brow. The foreman turns at the sound of the door opening with a scowl on his face, though his expression is quick to smooth over when he sees who’s come to interrupt his work.

“Your Majesty!”

Thorin scans the room, his gaze settling on three hearths, dark and cold and undoubtedly connected to the damaged chimney. Thorin looks towards them pointedly before leveling the foreman with a hard stare.

“The chimney cap crumbled inward,” the foreman is saying, wringing his hands together. “It caused a bit of blockage. We’re already arranging for a team to clear it.”

“You’re meant to preform inspections regularly,” Thorin says.

“We do, Sire. We did.”

“When?”

“Every morning, right after my shift begins, and again before I leave.”

“And there was no sign of damage before this?”

“None. We must have missed something. I take full responsibility for any problems this may cause.”

And if the foreman is wrong? If there was nothing to be missed?

Thorin tells himself that he’s being paranoid. Inspections are cut short, problems are overlooked. It’s the way of things, sometimes, danger being forgotten as familiarity sets in, and even a hairline fracture can destroy a bolder if struck in the right place. Perhaps a stone was blown across the chimney top and did just that. 

And yet something does not sit right within Thorin, an ill feeling churning in his gut.

“Shut it down,” Thorin says. The foreman frowns.

“The hearths are already—”

“No, shut everything down.” 

The foreman sputters, his face reddening.

“There’s no need for that, Your Majesty, I assure you. The rest are fine.”

Thorin lifts his chin, catching of glimpse of Dwalin stepping close out of the corner of his eye. “Do I have to repeat myself?”

“No, no, Sire, I only— it will take hours to rekindle fires once they’re out.”

“I know that—” Thorin begins, his patience growing dangerously thin, but his words are drowned out by a great thump overhead, echoing down through layers of stone and into the room, dust and pebbles tumbling down from the ceiling. 

“What—” The foreman begins, craning his head back.

“It’s another chimney,” Thorin says. Any icy feeling takes root in his chest, spreading outwards along his arms and down his legs. Dwalin’s hand falls over his shoulder, fingers curling, digging in beneath his collarbone. “It’s caved in, or been shut.”

“That can’t—”

Someone shouts in the background and Thorin turns to see smoke puffing out from two lit hearths, dwarves scrambling around them, working to smother the flames.

“We need to leave,” Dwalin says.

Thorin ignores him, rounding on the foreman. “You have no one up there keeping watch?”

“We don’t have enough dwarves to—”

Another rumbles interrupts them, drowning out the foreman’s voice, and the air grows thicker. 

“Lock off the door dampers!” Someone is yelling.

“They’re jammed, they won’t shut—”

“Then start putting the blasted fires out! All of them!” 

“No!” Thorin says. “Leave—”

Dwarves are already rushing forward to do so, buckers of water and soil in hand, throwing them into the hearths. The thudding above them is near constant, now, one loud clunk after the other, and more smoke wafts into the room, black and choking. 

“Leave the fires!” Thorin bellows over the noise, shoving away from Dwalin, grabbing at a dwarf that’s rushing by with a full pail and throwing him towards the exit, water splashing against the floor and soaking Thorin’s boots. “Get those doors open!” 

When Smaug descended on Erebor it was neither the dragon nor the fire that drove the dwarves from the mountain, but the smoke. It brought Erebor’s army to its knees, so hot it burned the throat and lungs, stung the eyes and coated the tongue black. Proud soldiers collapsed as they tried to flee, suffocating, hacking up soot-stained mucus and flailing as though they were drowning on dry land. 

Thorin is caught in the memory, rushing through a crowd of panicked dwarves to find his grandfather, the scent of burning flesh and hair falling over him, smoke packing his lungs, strangling his throat as he clawed forward, blind and desperate. 

_No,_ Thorin thinks. Dwalin is pushing him towards the door. _No, be here, not there._

Thorin can hear others shouting to get the king out, to keep him safe. But there’s no securing the doors like this. Tying off the chains means leaving someone behind to rip them loose, means fiddling instead of escaping.

And so Thorin doesn’t run. He lifts his hands and takes hold of the door once it’s been heaved up, feels the strain of it in his arms, his spine and lower back and knees. The scar rippling up his side sears with pain from the stretch and pressure, so intense that Thorin is half convinced the skin has split like a seam that’s been nicked and pulled. 

“You need to leave!” Dwalin snarls, squeezing in next to him, lifting his arms to take some of the weight. Thorin ignores him, yells at their dumbfounded onlookers to bloody _go_.

It’s enough to break the spell. Dwarves rush by them, stumbling forward, falling over and coughing once through the door, being grabbed by others and dragged away from the smoke. Thorin hears the sound of another door being heaved open, the heavy scrape of stone against metal.

“Thorin!” Dwalin yells, kicking at the back of Thorin’s boots.

“You’re going to make me drop it,” Thorin snaps. 

“Good! _Go_!”

And do what? Stand idly by while dwarves rush from the room, hacking and clawing for breath, wringing his hands while he waits?

“Thor—Thor-in ,” Dwalin says, his voice sputtering in and out between coughs.

Thorin ducks his chin, pressing his mouth to his shoulder, trying to breathe. He’s beginning to feel dizzy, and his arms are shaking. 

“Drop it after the next one,” Thorin says, gasping.

A sudden rush of smoke washes over them, burning at Thorin’s eyes, dense and foul in his mouth. He can’t see, can’t _breathe_ , knows that the last dwarf has passed through only by feel of his shoulder bumping against him.

Dwalin kicks at him again, letting go of the door first and grabbing a fistful of Thorin’s tunic to drag him out after him.

Thorin doesn’t know how it happens, blind as he is, but they must knock the door off the tracking that’s meant to guide it shut as they move away. The stone catches against the metal frame, tearing it from the wall with a shriek, and Thorin throws up his arm at the noise. A thin, sharp strip of steel rips through cloth and skin and tears down the inside of Thorin’s arm, catching against the thick leather of his glove and splitting it open.

The door doesn’t shut, instead toppling to the side against the wall, sitting in the doorway at an angle, smoke spilling through the gaps. Thorin stumbles, almost collapsing to his knees, still coughing with and blood trickling down his arm and wrist and fingers. 

He needs to stop the bleeding, needs to stop it _now_. He remembers the dwarves that couldn’t cope with the lost of Erebor, how some were found dead in their tents with deep cuts lining their arms and old blood pooled beneath their stiff bodies.

Dwalin clamps his large, rough hands over Thorin’s arm, squeezing, yanking it upwards and holding tight when Thorin tries to move away on instinct.

“It’s fine,” Dwalin says, his voice controlled though his eyes are bright. “I’ve got you, it’s fine.”

Thorin wants to laugh. He thinks maybe he does, given how Dwalin’s staring at him. Is this how he dies, of blood loss beneath the mountain? Did he survive trolls and orcs and a dragon, overcome the sickness that consumed his forefathers all to meet this pitiful end? 

“Get—get the room blocked off and shut the vents,” he says, loudly, not knowing who’s close enough to hear him. The fires will burn out quickly enough on their own with no oxygen left to feed them. It will be fine, the chimneys can be repaired and the forges rekindled, so long as no one was forgotten and left behind to—

There are dwarves rushing by him, the sound of stone grinding against stone and shouting and a crowd gathering close, pressing in. Dwalin is yelling for someone to find a damn medic.

“How bad?” Thorin wheezes. Dwalin’s chest is pressed against his back, and when Thorin tries to look at him the world tilts sideways and spins.

“I don’t know,” Dwalin says. He’s pulling at Thorin again, dragging him away to where the air is clearer. Their onlookers follow, a anxious muttering flowing through the crowd. “I’m not letting go to see. We’ll wait for a doctor. It’ll be fine.”

Dwalin’s breathing is all wrong, shallow and too fast against Thorin’s ear, his throat rasping with each inhale, clicking when he exhales. 

Dark spots bleed inwards form the edges of Thorin’s vision. He shakes his head, leaning heavily against Dwalin as he tries to blink them gone. Someone calls to Dwalin and he looks away just as a dwarf lad no older than Kili hurries forward to help, his face gleaming with sweet and cheeks blackened with ash, something flashing mirror-bright in his palm as he reaches out to—

In the chaos, no one else sees it. Thorin tries to twist away but the crowd is packed too close and Dwalin’s grip on his arm locks him in place, so he throws out his hand, trying to catch hold of the hilt or the boy’s arm, thinking muzzily that he may just end up with a matching pair of scars should he survive this.

His vision blurs and Thorin misjudges his aim and the blade cuts into his glove, slicing apart the webbing between his forefinger and thumb. Thorin’s wearing no armour, no protection thicker than his cloak and woolen tunic, and the knife keeps driving forward, ripping through his shirt, skittering along a rib but not slipping beneath it. Thorin’s fingers close around the boy’s wrist when the blade grinds against bone and bounces off, and the boy stares at him, wide-eyed and pale, seeming just as shocked as Thorin over what he’s done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extended warnings (meaning spoilers): Near the end of the chapter Thorin’s arm is ripped open from his wrist to his elbow, causing him to remember dwarves that committed suicide on the road after the fall of Erebor.


	6. Chapter 6

Thorin can’t keep his grip when the boy wrenches his arm away. There’s blood dribbling down his stomach, slicking his palm and leaking from the open tear in his glove, and when he tries to curl his fingers his thumb throbs in time with his pulse but barely manages to twitch. Dwalin is shouting, and though he’s still right there next to Thorin —a little at his back and a little at his side, his hands never budging from where they’re clenched down tight over Thorin’s arm— his words sound muffled and distorted, as though Thorin were listening to them with his head dunked beneath flowing water.

The boy stumbles back but the workers flank him before he can run. They wrestle him to the ground and pin him onto his belly, grab at his arm and twist it around until the knife tumbles from his grasp. Thorin calls out when he sees a dwarf draw back their leg for a kick, a low bellow rising up from his gut, and the offender halts, sneering down at the lad but not daring to disobey his King. 

Guards are beginning to arrive, either fetched by stray workers or drawn down by the commotion, pushing through the crowd. The boy’s staring at Thorin, his eyes wide and damp, his cheek pressed roughly against the floor, and Thorin meets his eyes as he calls for him to be taken away and jailed for questioning, pausing for a moment before adding loudly that the boy’s not to be harmed. 

No one protests his order, though Thorin is quick to notice the guards that would like to. They hunch their shoulders and wrinkle their noses, spit upon the ground before apprehending the boy. _Soft_ , Thorin had feared to be called, and soft these few will name him. But even the elves had been above thrashing their prisoners, and Thorin will not hold himself to a lower standard than Thranduil, will not rule beneath a shroud of petty cruelty.

“Thorin,” Dwalin says, his inflection implying that this isn’t the first time he’s called his name. “You need a healer. Can you walk?”

Thorin nods but doubles over when he tries. Another coughing fit wracks his body, leaving his chest heaving and his throat raw, his mouth tasting of ash. Dwalin can’t steady him, not without first relinquishing his hold, and he calls out for a guard to come and help take his weight. 

“I can manage,” Thorin rasps, stumbling to regain his feet. His shaking legs make a liar of him, his burning eyes and the pain that spikes along his ribs as gasps for breath. The guard grips Thorin’s free arm, drags it over his shoulders and clings tightly to his wrist.

Thorin is lead to the nearest infirmary, taken to a back room that under Dwalin’s orders is locked off from anyone who’s not of the royal line or a member of the Company. As Thorin’s dumped onto the bed it’s Dwalin who tells the guard to send for Oin, leaning his hip against the mattress and remaining close by Thorin’s side. 

“Lord Oin may be on the other side of the mountain, Sir,” the guard says.

“Then get someone else in here while we wait, but send for him!” Dwalin snaps, and snarls at the guard to get going when he pauses at the door to bow to Thorin.

“He’s supposed to do that, you realize,” Thorin mumbles, his skull thumping back against the headboard. Dwalin gives his arm a shake when his eyelids begin to droop.

It’s not long until a pair of young healers are let into the room, each coming with their own armed escort that hovers close as they set off to work, arranging trays and prepping tools, filling cauldrons with water and hanging them over the fire to warm. They force Thorin to sit up so they can cut open his tunic, weaving around Dwalin and the guards alike as they tend to him. One cleans the wound on Thorin’s chest while the other begins to examine his blood-soaked glove.

“Can you move your fingers, Sire?”

Thorin tries. He doesn’t look to see how well he succeeds. 

“Shouldn’t you be doing something about this before he bleeds to death?” Dwalin asks, jostling Thorin’s arm again.

“Give Lord Oin a moment more to arrive,” the healer patching up Thorin’s chest replies. “We will need his skill.”

Dwalin mutters something low beneath his breath but doesn’t try to argue. His grip on Thorin’s arm never falters, but when Thorin lifts his head to look there’s blood leaking out from between his friend’s fingers, red stains fanning beneath Dwalin’s nails and filling the cracks along his knuckles.

“Thorin. Thorin, look at me.”

The healer shifts aside to make room, still concentrated on her work, and Dis appears before him. She takes Thorin’s face between her hands, her palms dry and soft against his clammy skin. 

“Hello,” is all Thorin can think to say, and Dis stares at him, her eyes liquid-dark and suddenly, unbearably sad.

“Hello,” she says, stroking her thumbs along the sharp lines of Thorin’s cheekbones, the scruffy edges of his beard. “Oin will be right along. Can you keep speaking to me, until he arrives?”

“Where’s the boy?” Thorin asks. Dwalin adjusts his grip, his fingers slipping before clamping back down. 

“Boy?”

“He means assassin,” Dwalin says. “Did he make it to his cell?”

“Yes. I confirmed it before coming.”

“Are all the workers accounted for?” Thorin asks.

“No one has yet to be reported missing, as far as I know.”

Thorin swallows, suddenly made aware of his parched throat and fuzzy tongue. Dis’ hands slip away as she goes to fetch him a glass of water without having to be asked, steadying it against his mouth so he can drink. The other healer is slowly removing Thorin’s glove, snipping away at the leather before peeling it back from his wrist. There’s a pin-prick sensation along the wound at Thorin’s ribs, the stinging kiss of a needle.

“Keep talking,” Dis says, setting the glass aside.

“Where… where’s Dain?”

“Leading out a team to examine the chimneys. He’s taken some of the Company along with him.” 

“He needs to be questioned,” Thorin says. His eyelids flutter. “The—the boy. Not Dain.”

“I know who you meant.” Dis pinches at Thorin’s cheeks. “Stop that. Don’t close your eyes.”

Thorin tries to do as she asks, but watching Dis’ face blur in and out of focus makes his stomach turn.

“Give the boy time to stew,” Dis says. “Dwalin should have a go at him first, don’t you think? And then someone with a softer touch if it doesn’t take.”

“Agreed,” Dwalin says, and Thorin can almost hear the harsh smile in his voice.

“He looked surprised,” Thorin says.

Dis tilts her head. “Who did?”

“The boy. He looked…”

It’s important. Thorin knows it is. An assassin shouldn’t stare like that, shouldn’t look to be on the verge of tears after being caught. He should have struggled, screamed, spat out hate-fueled words as he frothed at the mouth. But the boy didn’t fight, didn’t try to justify what he’d done. Thorin’s murder would have been a passionless crime had the boy succeeded, and Thorin can’t put the pieces together to understand what that means, but Dis isn’t like him. She’s always been quick and clever and skilled at thinking around corners. She would come up with an answer.

Oin pushes through the door, red in the face and huffing. He scans the room quickly before striding over to the basin in the corner to wash his hands.

“Took your damn time,” Dwalin snaps. 

“Came as fast as I could. I’m not stationed here, you might recall,” Oin says, glancing at Dwalin over his shoulder, narrowing his good eye. “You’ll have to let someone else take his arm. Switch places with Frara.” 

“No,” Dwalin says.

“Your hands are dirty. This is going to be difficult enough as it is without you smearing about more filth.”

“He’ll _bleed_.”

“He’s already bleeding. It will be fine if you do it right.”

“Dwalin.” Thorin tips up his chin, trying to catch his eyes. “Do it.”

The dwarf-maiden tending to Thorin’s chest pushes herself up to her feet. She shuffles close to Dwalin, slipping her finger beneath his and applying pressure as his hands ease back, telling him when to relax his grip and when to stop and squeeze. Thorin’s attention is drawn away by the tug at his hand, the slap of leather being tossed aside.

Dis says his name but Thorin is watching the healer’s face, the tense line of his lips and worried frown. He reaches for a strip of cloth, dabbing, and Thorin tries to turn his head enough to catch a glimpse of his hand, but Dis’ fingers on his cheek stop him.

“How bad is it?” Thorin asks.

“Not your hand you should be worried about, laddie,” Oin says. He moves next to Thorin when Dwalin steps away, readying a needle and thread, rags soaked in vinegar that will sting when he presses them against the open wound. 

“I want to know.”

“It’s deep,” the healer says.

“Can you stitch it?” Oin asks. 

The healer makes a sound, neither a yes or a no, and Thorin tries not to think about what that means. 

“You should get yourself cleaned up,” Oin says, glancing towards Dwalin. “And take them with you,” he adds, nodding to the guards that Thorin had all but forgotten about.

“We’re here for His Majesty’s protection,” one says. Oin snorts.

“I vouch for these two personally, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says, nodding at the other healers. “There are far too many people in this room. I need to concentrate. ”

“I’m staying,” Dis says. Oin’s protest is quickly cut off when she looks up at him, her earrings and beads tinkling against each other, the delicate sound of it off-set by the diamond-hard resolve in her eyes.

“Fine,” Oin grumbles. “But you’ll have to move.”

Dis nods, leaving Thorin with a wilted smile and a kiss on the brow. Dwalin steps into Thorin’s line of sight as she settles into a chair, his jaw clenching and relaxing as if he’s chomping down on words he’s not sure he should speak. His face is pale beneath the soot on his skin, his hands wet and red.

“I’m not dragging the hobbit in here for another deathbed confession,” he warns.

Thorin thinks of Bilbo, then, picturing him as he was when Thorin awoke to find him in his tent after the battle. He thinks of the crusted line of blood trailing down Bilbo’s face and the mud caked into his curls, of his bruised eyes and scabbed knuckles and the raw croak that broke through his voice as he asked Thorin not to die.

“No need,” Thorin says, but Dwalin’s blank expression and Dis’ silence tells him that the words offer little comfort.

 

 

_The King has been stabbed._

The words echo in Bilbo’s ears, pound through his skull, hound his very footsteps as he races through Erebor’s torch-lit halls. He darts around the whispering bundles of dwarves that block his path, nearly knocking some poor fellow over in his rush to get by. Bilbo hardly has enough of his wits remaining to call out an apology over his shoulder, and he’s sure that hours from now he’ll think back to this moment and consider how his mother would tut at such a poor display of manners. He wonders briefly if he should be more concerned over his waning propriety. It’s a result of too much time spent among dwarves, Bilbo’s sure, and his heart lurches at the thought, because there’s one dwarf in particular who he’s seen far too little of, as of late, and for all Bilbo knows could already be— 

_Enough of that,_ Bilbo thinks furiously, pinching his eyes shut for an instant and trying to squeeze out the image of Thorin lying half-dead on a dirty cot. _He was nearly ripped in half by Azog and still lived, for goodness sakes. He can survive this._

Bilbo had been planning on spending a leisurely afternoon with Kili. He was preparing for their first lesson before he heard the news, unrolling fresh parchment and laying out quills, thinking up simple elvish phrases for Kili to learn and copy. Bilbo only ventured out into the mountain at the insistence of his rumbling stomach, and had been taken off guard by the dour mood that seemed to hang over the occupants he found within the mess hall. 

A few dwarves looked up at Bilbo as he walked past, but most seemed completely engaged in their quiet conversations, huddled together and speaking in low, anxious voices. In the Shire Bilbo had been well acquainted with the daily bouts of gossip that would be passed along from hobbit to hobbit like a bad cold, and though he usually tried and avoid such trouble himself, at that moment his curiosity spiked beyond his control. So Bilbo paused, pretending to busy himself with straightening out the front of his tunic as he strained his ears, trying to decipher the whispers around him.

“Did you hear?” 

“The King—”

“Down in the forges—”

“Was it really an assassin?” 

“He had a _knife._ ”

Bilbo’s hands stilled against the hem of his tunic as a strange chill settled over him. He lifted his head and glanced about around him, approaching the closest pair of dwarves he saw in a rush. 

“Hello. I—I’m sorry to interrupt, but what was they you were saying?”

The dwarves paused, looking at each other before turning to blink down at him.

“I… oh, you haven’t heard, little one?”

“Heard _what?_ ”

“The King has been stabbed.”

The air in Bilbo’s lungs left him in a sudden rush, leaving him hollow. 

“What… but what happened? Is he all right?”

“He’s alive,” the second dwarf said. “But that’s all I know of it. My cousin works down in the forges. I went to see him this afternoon and arrived just after it happened.”

“Do you know where he is? Where they would have taken him?” Bilbo asked. He didn’t think at the time to inquire as to _what_ happened.

“Well… the infirmary, I suspect.”

Bilbo scrubbed at his face, nearly wanted to pull his hair out from the root with frustration. There were dozens of infirmaries scattered throughout Erebor —there had to be, given the size of the mountain. It would take hours for Bilbo to check them all.

Except…

“I think… I overhear something about a forge?”

“Aye. It’s where it all took place.”

“Which one?”

“Southern, on the lower level.”

Bilbo nodded. It was a start, at least. He thanked the dwarves for their help and took off at a sprint, his lesson plan for Kili and his hope for a quick snack all but forgotten.

Bilbo still checks the infirmary where he knows Oin is stationed first, but quickly turns away upon seeing only a few weathered dwarves in the area. From there he descends into Erebor, stopping only once when he’s turned around by the twists in passageways and is forced to double back to ask for directions. He honestly can’t imagine how Thorin, of all people, manages to navigate these halls. The poor dwarf somehow got himself lost in the Shire, after all.

Bilbo nearly smiles at the thought, but the glimmer of amusement it brings him fades quickly against the grim reality at hand. 

_I’ll ask him_ Bilbo decides. _When I see him, I’ll ask._

The next infirmary he comes to is bustling with activity, and Bilbo sags with relief, trying to catch his breath but not bothering to take even a moment to compose himself before stepping inside. He’s met with utter chaos, healers rushing about and hacking dwarves waiting to be tended to, family members or friends harassing the staff, wanting to be told what’s going on. Someone bumps into Bilbo without apologizing and another dwarf shoves him aside in their haste to catch a healer’s arm, demanding to know where their brother is. Bilbo looks about wildly until he spots two guards hovering next to a closed door down at the far end of the room, clad in full armour with spears in hand.

No door in Erebor has yet been locked to Bilbo, and he’s alarmed when his approach is halted by one of the guards grabbing his shoulder, digging metal-clad fingers in hard enough to bruise before throwing Bilbo back and away from the door.

Bilbo makes a sound, startled and pained as he stumbles to keep his feet.

“You’re not permitted to enter,” the guard says, flexing his fingers.

“I— I’m what?”

The dwarf’s upper lip curls away from his teeth. “Do not make me repeat myself, Halfling.”

That word again. _Halfling._ Spoken like Bilbo should be ashamed of it.

Bilbo clenches his jaw, baring his own teeth in a harsh smile.

“I’m a member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. If you’ve allowed any of the others to enter—”

“It’s no business of yours who’s inside.” 

“His Majesty has already stated that those who joined him on his quest are to be afforded every courtesy—”

“I have no direct orders from the King saying that you’re to be allowed through. I recommend you leave, Halfling, before I have you removed.”

Bilbo doesn’t miss the careful wording of that sentence, and it makes his face burn hot, a fine mixture of anger and embarrassment searing through him from the inside out. 

“Is he all right? Can you tell me that much, at least?”

The guard’s silent companion shifts, and for a moment he seems about to speak before a look from the other cuts him off. The first guard then turns back to Bilbo, leaning out go grab him once more. But Bilbo is ready, this time, and is quick to step away and out of his reach.

“Oh please, do let me save you the trouble,” Bilbo snaps, turning on his heel and marching off. The outburst earns him a few surprised looks and one particularly nasty scowl from a passerby, but Bilbo can’t be bothered to pay it any mind as he pushes his way towards the exit. He tucks his hand into his pocket before he’s even out of sight of the guards, rolling the cold shape of his ring against his finger, slipping it on not a moment after he’s left the infirmary and rounded a corner a ways down for cover. 

Bilbo’s surroundings blur as the ring passes over his first knuckle, turning hazy and shifting at the edges. But he’s long grown used to the strange world of the ring, and what was once a curious oddity to its enchantment is hardly even noticeable to him anymore. Squaring his shoulders, Bilbo turns back the way he came, keeping towards the perimeter once he reenters the infirmary, mindful not be stepped on or jostled, though he comes to an abrupt halt as he nears the guards once more.

Should he risk sneaking by? It could be done, he’s sure. All Bilbo needs to do is duck beneath their crossed spears. A randomly opening door would raise suspicion, of course, but the guards’ first thoughts would hardly be to blame an invisible intruder. 

But then… what would happen if Bilbo were to accidently brush against them? If he jarred one of the spears with his elbow as he passed? 

Without warning the guards snap to attention and Bilbo freezes, his heart leaping into his throat, thinking for a ludicrous, dizzying second that he’s somehow been spotted. But then Fili is there, breezing by as the guards step aside to allow him passage, and Bilbo doesn’t miss his chance. He trots forward and follows on Fili’s heels, hugging his arms around himself tightly to take up as little space as he possibly can.

Bilbo is only afforded a brief glance of the short hallway he’s been led into before Fili comes to an abrupt stop. The door swings shut at their backs with a thud, and Bilbo is lucky to have been lagging behind or else he would have certainly barreled right into the Fili in his haste to make it through. 

Fili takes a deep breath, his shoulders sloping as he lifts his hands to rub at his face, pushing his fingers back through his hair and mussing up his tidy braids. When he starts forward again it’s at a slower pace, and Bilbo is careful to keep a step between them as he trails behind. Bilbo wants to stop him, to take his wrist and ask Fili if he’s all right, and he curses himself for not waiting a moment longer before resorting to his ring. Bilbo doesn’t know why he still insists upon keeping his helpful little trinket a secret from his friends, but his desire to do so is enough to win out over his guilt, and he resolves to remain hidden for the time being. 

“— _blaming_ me?”

The voice is just loud enough to be heard through the lone cedar door sitting at the end of the hall. Fili’s head shoots up at the sound, his strides lengthening.

“That’s not what I said,” Someone else growls in response, their voice dark and low. Dwalin. Bilbo’s sure of it.

“No, it’s what you’re implying.” 

Fili flings open the door, and Bilbo has to crouch only a little to peek beneath his outstretched arm.

Nearly half of the Company has gathered inside, with Kili sitting atop the rug close to the glowing hearth and Dori occupying a chair next to him. Gloin hovers in the corner with his pipe, a thick plume of smoke nearly hiding his face from view. Dwalin stands at the opposite end of the room, his strong arms crossed over his chest, glowering at Nori. 

“Now, please, correct me if I’m wrong,” Nori says, his tone sticky-sweet and misaligned with the wicked glint in his eyes. “But aren’t you around to stop things like this from happening?”

Dwalin’s fingers clench. His hands are clean but his wrists are dirty, Bilbo notices, smudged with browning stains that cut off abruptly, as though they were missed while washing. “And here I thought it was your job to report rumours and uproot conspiracies—”

“There was nothing to report—”

“Well apparently there was!”

Their voices only grow louder, after that, their insults sharper. Gloin cuts in, trying to put a stop to it, but it seems to only make matters worst when Nori sneers as his attempt and Dwalin snaps at him to mind his own business. Kili appears to be the only dwarf to even notice that Fili has arrived. His hands cut through the air, fingers flexing into shapes, and Bilbo recognizes the motions as a language though he knows nothing of the meaning. 

Fili bristles, clearing his throat noisily to no avail. 

Bilbo leans back behind Fili, thinking that he may not get a better chance than this as he hides himself from view and tugs off his ring. He tucks it back into the safety of his pocket, blinking as his surroundings settle and colour blooms once again before his eyes.

“Oi!” Bilbo shouts. “Enough of that, the both of you! Pointing fingers is hardly going to do any good.”

Fili jumps aside with a curse, twisting around to look at Bilbo, his eyes wide with shock. “Bilbo? What…?”

“Finally, a voice of reason.” Dori sniffs, looking between Nori and Dwalin, wrinkling his nose. Nori rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, only to promptly shut it again when his brother levels him with a hard stare. Dwalin looks away, his arms and shoulders tense, staring at the shut door across the room beyond which Thorin must surely lie.

“I didn’t—Bilbo, where did you come from?” Fili asks.

“I might have snuck past the guards,” Bilbo hedges, waving a hand at Fili when his brow folds. “Oh, come now, is that really so surprising? You all did trust in me to creep by a dragon, after all.”

“But—”

“Why did you have to sneak?” Kili cuts in, propping his arm up onto his knee, resting his jaw atop his curled fist.

“Er.” Bilbo clears his throat. “Well, they didn’t want to let me through.”

It takes a long moment for anyone to respond to that. Nori lifts his brows, his chin ducking down towards his chest, surveying Bilbo’s as though he’s trying to determine whether or not he’s having a go at their expense. Gloin breathes out a slow line of smoke with a frown, and Kili and Dori exchange peculiar looks. 

“Is that so,” Dwalin says, a dangerous edge marking his otherwise flat tone.

“I’ll be right back,” Fili says. Any trace of his initial surprise at Bilbo’s presence vanishes as he turns away, replaced with a curiously cold blankness that Bilbo doesn’t care for at all.

Bilbo shakes his head, catching Fili’s arm. “Wait, Fili, there are other things to worry about, don’t—”

“No, this is horseshit!” Fili yells, pulling free of Bilbo’s grip, taking a deep breath when he sees Bilbo startle at his anger. “They can’t slight you like this.”

“Those are _my_ orders they’re ignoring, Fili.” Dwalin says. “Bilbo’s right, let them be. I’ll deal with it.”

“You shouldn’t have to. Dain’s soldiers can’t just decide to do whatever they bloody well feel like!”

“Unless I’m mistaken, one of the dwarves standing guard hails from the Blue Mountains,” Balin cuts, closing the door to Thorin’s room softly behind him. “Suspicions are running high, laddie, and our kind have never been known to place much trust in outsiders.”

“Except Bilbo’s not an outsider!”

“I am,” Bilbo says, offering Fili a thin smile and a shrug when he looks back down at him. “To them, anyways. ”

“So they should just be allowed to—?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Balin shakes his head. “Nor am I excusing them from reprimand. But it’s wise to consider why they’re acting as they are.”

Fili crosses his arms, looking no happier but staying put.

“How’s Thorin?” Kili asks. 

“He says all the yelling out here is giving him a headache,” Balin says, lifting a brow at Fili’s flush. 

Dwalin’s grunts. “Been managing to stay awake, then.”

“In and out.”

“I’m sorry, but… can someone tell me what happened?” Bilbo asks. 

It’s Dwalin who explains it, telling Bilbo of the little runner and her message, the report of a crumbled chimney cap that had Thorin delay his meetings and sent them both down into the forges. He speaks of a rumbling sound overhead —so loud, he says, that shook straight through to the bones— speaks of heat and smoke and panic, a young boy with a sharp knife.

“Fortunate, that he had poor aim,” Dwalin says.

“Then—I mean, Thorin is—?”

“It’s his arm that’s more troubling.”

Bilbo blinks, uncomprehending until Dwalin holds out his own arm and turns it over, touching a finger to his wrist and drawing it up towards the bend of his elbow. 

“An accident, that part,” he mutters, pausing for a moment before adding, “Oin may not be able to stitch it. I’ve seen it happen. A wound like that… sometimes you can’t, if the cut is deep enough, if it’s in the right place.”

Kili shifts, drawing both legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around then. Fili looks between his brother and Dwalin, anger heating his cheeks, clear even through his stubborn silence. 

“Brother…” Balin says, sounding more disappointed than angry. He exchanges a look with Dori who only shrugs, as if this is to be expected.

“How very sensitive you are,” Nori mutters. Dwalin turns to him with a sneer.

“ _You_ —”

“Now don’t you two start up again,” Bilbo snaps. He points a finger first at Dwalin and then Nori in turn, and to his complete surprise they actually listen, Dwalin looking away with a small huff and Nori throwing up his hands in surrender.

They all go a little quiet, after that. Balin remains, pulling a scroll of parchment out from a hidden pocket in his thick over-shirt to examine, though Bilbo notices that more often than not his eyes remain still and focused rather than flitting along the page. Bilbo follows Fili when he goes to settle next to Kili, placing himself in front of the warm hearth and alternating between staring into the flames and watching as his Kili half-heartedly fusses with his puzzle box. Bilbo turns Dwalin’s story over in his head in just the same way Kili’s hands slip over the toy, trying to slot the pieces together until they form something that makes sense.

“Do you think they’re connected?” Bilbo asks, cutting through the silence. “What happened in the forge and the assassin?”

Balin looks up from his work, his brows lifting. 

“More likely than it being a coincidence,” Gloin says.

“But… well, that is to say yes, of course what happened with the chimneys must have been planned, but whoever caused it couldn’t have know Thorin was going to be there, now could they?”

“He almost wasn’t,” Dwalin says. “We were outside the mountain just before it happened, and the foreman had no intention of reporting the trouble to begin with.”

“Then perhaps the assassination attempt was only—I’m not sure. Spur of the moment? He saw an opening and took advantage?”

“But that… that’s so _stupid_ ,” Nori says, his features twisting as though he’s just bitten into something sour. “If you’re going to try and off the King you’d better make damn well sure you succeed. It’s not as though you’ll get much of a second chance.”

“Glad to see you’ve thought this through, brother,” Dori says sweetly. 

“The assassin is hardly more than a lad,” Balin pipes up, scratching at his chin. “Only seventy-eight, if the records are accurate. It’s not so unreasonable to think he acted rashly.”

Bilbo nods, but despite being the one to suggest it the explanation seems off, somehow. Gloin’s right in saying that a coincidence seems unlikely, but then, what else could it be?

“But why even collapse the chimneys?” Kili asks. “Just… why go through the trouble?”

“It will cause delays in other projects,” Balin says. “Slow our progress and stretch out our workers. Use up time. Resources.” 

“Fili,” Bilbo says. “You said that there are dwarves here that aren’t fond of Thorin’s rule. Maybe… some of them want to stir up trouble? Make things more difficult for him?”

“But that’s… you really think someone would go so far?” Fili asks. 

“It sends a message, doesn’t it? Disrupting Erebor’s restoration under Thorin’s rule?”

Nori hums, pushing off the wall. “We don’t know enough to say, I think.” He turns to Balin. “Now then, what was the lad’s name again? Our would-be assassin?” 

“Hirin, son of Hinrid.”

“Don’t recognize it. His father anyone important?”

“One of the builders. Very skilled at his craft.”

“Hails from the Iron Hills?”

“Aye.”

“Any idea on his feelings towards His Majesty?”

“Just what are you getting at?” Dori asks. Nori waves him off.

“Hinrid didn’t oppose Thorin’s decree when he ordered the builders to move on from the stone guardians,” Balin says. “One of the few.”

Nori nods, looking to Dwalin next. “And the little lass that informed you of what happened?”

“Rila. One of Lir’s, she said. Doubt she could have had much involvement.”

“Oh, maybe not. Irresponsible, though, not to look into her at least.”

“That’s not precisely your job,” Balin says. 

Nori snorts. “Please, if that’s not my job then I don’t know what is.” 

And with that he saunters off towards the door, sparing a moment to wink at Dwalin and wave at the rest of them from over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall. Dwalin narrows his eyes, glaring at Nori’s back as he goes.

 

 

It takes less than twenty minutes after Nori’s departure for Dain to burst through the door, tossing it back on its hinges and striding forward, not even taking a moment to glace at his surroundings before entering Thorin’s room. Balin is quick to tuck away his scroll and follow after, though he taps his knuckles twice against the door in warning first, leaving the rest of them to look amongst themselves, anxious and wondering.

Thankfully, they’re not left in such a state for long, and when Balin returns he’s accompanied by not only Dain, but Oin and Dis as well. They looked tired but not mournful, grim relief shadowing their faces.

Dwalin straightens and Fili and Kili scramble up to their feet, pulling Bilbo up with them when he doesn’t react quickly enough.

“Mum!” Kili says.

“How is he?” Fili asks.

“Alive,” Oin grunts, rubbing a damp and darkly spotted rag over his hands. “Lost more blood than I would have liked. He’ll need to rest over the next few days. Longer, if there’s infection.”

“He won’t like that much,” Gloin says.

Dis shrugs, drawing the back of her hand over her brow. “He doesn’t like anything much.”

Fili starts forward, pausing only to glance at Oin in a silence request for permission. 

“Just don’t wake him,” Oin says with a shrug, stepping aside as Fili darts into his uncle’s room with Kili close behind.

Bilbo watches them go, managing to catch sight of a pair of lingering dwarves beyond the swinging door, healers gathering up tools and bandages. Thorin is hardly visible, nothing more than a crumpled shape hidden beneath the covers, his dark hair spilling across the pillows and hiding his face from view.

Balin and Dain waste no time launching into a discussion on what’s to happen next, listing off what needs to be done while the King recovers and sorting out jobs for all of the Company. Dis, uncharacteristically, hovers at the edges of the conversation, her eyes flicking towards Bilbo once and then again. She departs from the group with a soft word, taking Bilbo’s arm and guiding him aside.

“You still seem troubled,” she says. It’s difficult for Bilbo to read her expression, but he thinks there are signs of stain at the tight corners of her mouth, the paper-thin lines stemming outwards from her sharp eyes.

“So do you,” he answers.

Dis’s jaw works, and Bilbo doesn’t know her as well as he would like to, but still thinks it strange to see her hesitate before speaking.

“Thorin’s thumb was nearly sliced off,” she says at last, keeping her voice soft and low. “Oin had it stitched but… he says there’s a chance it won’t take.”

Bilbo swallows. It does nothing to dissolve the hard lump that catches in his throat. 

“Which hand?”

“His right.”

“Well… I’ve seen Thorin fight and carve and do all matter of things with his left hand just as well.”

“It will still alter his craftsmanship. Effect is work at the forge.”

For all his time spent among dwarves Bilbo doubts that he will ever truly understand the significance crafting holds to them. But he knows enough to pay heed to Dis’ somber tone, to remember that for a very long time it was Thorin’s skill with metal and jewels that supported his starving family, that it was something he could rely on and fall back to and having that stripped away will be a blow no matter his current situation.

Bilbo nods, not knowing what to say, and Dis ducks her head, her dark hair falling free of the thick braid flung over her shoulder, tumbling forward and shadowing her face. She only allows herself a moment, and when she rolls back her shoulders and lifts her eyes again there are no lingering signs of distress etched across her features.

“Someone should stay with him tonight,” she says. “Oin suggested it.”

“Oh?”

Dis crosses her arms. Waits. 

“ _Oh._ I… me?” Bilbo stammers. “What if something happens?”

“Oin will be staying close, tending to the workers. You’ll be able to call on him if needed.”

“But—”

“You saw to our wounded after the battle, did you not? You’re hardly unfamiliar with injury.”

“Still… there must be someone better suited.”

“Thorin asked for you.”

Bilbo’s voice catches in his throat. He coughs into his hand, trying to cover it.

“He did?”

“Before,” Dis says. “When he was dying, he asked for you.”

Bilbo laughs, a nervous and high-pitched giggle that causes Dis to frown.

“That hardly means he wants me now,” he says.

Dis cocks her head to the side, her eyes narrowing. Her lips twitch and a strange change comes over her, as if she is all at the same time exasperated and angry and very nearly amused.

“Don’t play the fool, Master Baggins. It hardly suits you,” she says curtly, turning away from Bilbo before he can ask what she means.

Bilbo waits to enter Thorin’s room until Fili and Kili depart, awkwardly placing himself into the abandoned chair next to the bed as the healers continue to sputter about around him. He half expects them to ask him to leave, but when he is approached it’s only to be told that he should try and keep Thorin from moving should he wake.

“The last thing His Majesty needs is to tear out the stitches Lord Oin spent so long putting in,” the dwarf says, waving a finger at Bilbo and huffing out a breath that ruffles her long beard.

The healers leave behind freshly stocked supplies and water, and when Bilbo stands to investigate them Thorin doesn’t stir, not at the loud creak from the chair or at the clang a spare pan makes against the table when Bilbo fumbles and his fingers slip. It’s such a small thing, but it causes worry to twist in Bilbo’s stomach all the same. Thorin is usually a much lighter sleeper, twitching awake at the mere hoot of an owl when he’s not passed out from exhaustion. 

_He’s fine,_ Bilbo reminds himself, though he finds the words are easier to think than they are to believe. 

When Bilbo returns to Thorin’s side he stands rather than sits. Thorin’s right hand is closer, bandages looped around his palm and thumb and leaving his fingers bare. His left arm is hidden from view beneath the furs, and without thinking Bilbo reaches for the cover, having only lifted the edge before he catches himself and actually considers what he’s doing. He shakes his head.

“Back to this now, are we?” He mutters, thinking of his actions in Thorin’s tent months before. He still peeks all the same, finding Thorin bare above the line of his trousers, a strip of dressings along his ribs covering only a thin slice of his chest. Bilbo’s gaze is drawn to the brutal scar Azog left behind, the puckered and twisted skin that crawls up Thorin’s side. 

Once Oin had dealt with the worst of the infection it was often put upon Bilbo to change Thorin’s bandages and examine Oin’s small, neat little stiches for signs of strain or returning sickness. Thorin spoke very little during these times, but he always watched as Bilbo worked, sometimes half-asleep with his eyes hazy beneath the dark frame of his lashes. Often, Bilbo would begin to grow warm under Thorin’s scrutiny, the back of his neck glowing with heat that would then spread over his throat and down between his shoulder blades.

Bilbo lifts his hand, hovering over the ruined tissue and following the jagged pathway the scar cuts across Thorin’s body, mimicking touch. He wonders if it would feel warm or cold beneath his fingers, if laying his hand against it would cause Thorin pain or if any discomfort could be soothed away.

Bilbo drops his arm and retreats, fixing Thorin’s blankets before slumping back into his chair. He rubs at his eyes, examining Thorin’s pale face from between his fingers, waiting to see if his lashes will flutter or if his lips will part in a sigh. Bilbo’s eyelids flutter, and he thinks that resting for just a moment won’t be the cause of any harm. Worrying is very tiresome work, after all, and he’ll be sure to wake if anything happens. There are still guards stationed outside Thorin’s room, members of the Company remaining close at hand, and perhaps in the morning Bilbo will fetch Sting and carry it about his waist for one extra piece of protection if he’s still expected to remain by Thorin’s side.

Bilbo’s eyes slip shut once more and he keeps them that way, his breath deepening to match Thorin’s slow exhales, listening to the soft crackle of the fire until he hears it no more.

 

 

Thorin dreams of the arkenstone, of clutching it between his hands and rubbing his palms over its smooth surface, of the clear light burning at the jewel’s core, so strong that it stings at his eyes until they begin to prickle with tears but even then Thorin can’t seem to bring himself to look away.

His fingers tighten and the stone slips from his grasp and it’s Bilbo’s throat he’s squeezing, soft skin and a hammering pulse beneath his fingers. He doesn’t lift Bilbo to hang over the edge of the mountain, pulling him in close instead, hunching over and tightening his grip and Bilbo is kicking at his knees, digging his nails into Thorin’s wrists, gasping and struggling and clawing and Thorin clenches down harder until he feels something _crunch_ beneath the press of his thumbs and— 

He can’t breathe.

Thorin wakes up coughing, choking, thinking wildly of fire and smoke, of weathered stone and a long drop and round eyes alight with fear. He’s suffocating on nothing, his own saliva catching in his throat, and when he tries to push himself up his arm stings and his hand aches and something pinches tight along his chest.

“Thorin!”

There’s a hand against his shoulder, a warm, soft weight that shifts upward towards his collarbone, fingers bending until they find the back of his neck.

“I didn’t do that,” Thorin says, gasping. “I didn’t…”

“I know, I know,” Someone tells him, all though they couldn’t possibly. “It’s all right. Here.”

A mug is pressed to his lips. Thorin drinks without thinking, gulping at the warm water until the cup runs dry. The fingers against his neck slip away and Thorin opens his eyes to find Bilbo peering down at him, reaching out to press the back of his hand to Thorin’s cheek, his brow, pushing Thorin’s tangled hair back and away from his face. The touch calms Thorin, stills the anxiety that threatens to bubble up from his chest into his throat and out his mouth. Bilbo wouldn’t do this if Thorin had—if he—

(But didn’t he?)

“Bit better?” Bilbo asks, his lips quirking into a small smile that’s then broken by a yawn. “Well, the good news it you don’t have a fever. Not yet, anyways. How do you feel?”

“I… where—?”

“The infirmary. Do you remember what happened?”

Thorin nods. It’s not a lie, precisely. He knows he _will_ remember.

“I’m going to take a look at your arm now, hm? You really shouldn’t have tried to put any weight on it, I think. If you tore the stitches I’ll have to call for Oin, and he’ll have half a mind to pummel you, I’m sure…”

Bilbo chatters on as he turns Thorin’s arm over, padding softly at the dressings, a thin line of concentration marking his smooth brow. Slowly, Thorin’s memories return to him, though they come in hazy, flittering fragments that don’t slot together as well as they should. But Bilbo’s presence, his voice, helps, acts as a grounding force that Thorin can cling to and trust to steady him.

“Seems fine,” Bilbo says with some relief, pulling away. He moves on to examine Thorin’s hand next, holding it between both of his own, gentle with the tender line of muscle that stretches out between Thorin’s forefinger and thumb.

A mist descends over Thorin’s mind, shielding his dream from view. It blocks out everything but the light pressure of Bilbo’s fingertips against his bandages, the curl of hair that has slipped forward over Bilbo’s eyes, the rosy colour that warms his cheeks.

Thorin wants to touch Bilbo. Just touch.

He curls his fingers, trapping Bilbo’s beneath his own. A sharp spike of pain slices over his palm, but it’s worth bearing just to hear Bilbo’s unsteady gasp, to watch as a hot flush spreads over the tips of his odd, leaf-shaped ears. Bilbo lifts his head, his lips parting, his eyes wide and bright. He doesn’t try to pull his hand away.

“What are you doing?” 

Thorin could offer him a hundred different answers to that question, but nothing he thinks to say seems right, all of it too blunted or tangled to properly explain. It’s easier, in the end, for Thorin to bring Bilbo’s hand up to his mouth, to stifle the words by pressing his lips to the delicate arch of Bilbo’s knuckles and leaving them there, pulling away once only to repeat the motion.

Bilbo makes a quiet sound, neither a gasp or a whimper, nothing edged in disgust or protest. It’s a pleasant noise, a soft hum fluttering in his throat, and Thorin wants to hear it again, wants hear it often.

But a blurred, half-formed thought bubbles up from the dark well of Thorin’s mind, bursting before it’s fully formed but carrying with it a hot flash of guilt, burning a path over Thorin like red coals being scrubbed along his skin.

_What right do I have…?_

Thorin lets him go, turning his face away. Bilbo is slow to move, taking his hand back and staring down at it as if expecting to find his skin marked or changed.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Thorin says. 

Bilbo lets out a dry, bewildered little laugh.

“Now that’s lovely to hear. Why did you, then?”

Thorin shakes his head, his eyes drifting shut. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo says. He touches Thorin’s shoulder again, shakes it when he doesn’t respond. “Thorin, don’t you dare fall asleep before answering.”

He’s being a coward, Thorin knows, but he’s so tired, tired of his own blind foolishness, of struggling forward and not knowing what to do, of reaching for things he thinks he _should_ want and then finding what he truly desires has been left far behind him. 

“You’re being dreadfully unfair right now, I hope you know,” Bilbo says, his voice hushed with disappointment.

It’s true, he is, and Bilbo deserves more than his selfishness. So Thorin bites the inside of his cheek, he licks his lips and says it.

“I wanted to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're not going to talk about how many times I edited that last scene. Thanks for sticking with me, lovelies, and a friendly reminder that my tumblr can be found at: http://lightshesaid.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

Come midnight Thorin turns feverish. Pink blotches rise to his cheeks and sweat sprouts along his flushed skin in beads, soaking his hair and dampening the sheets beneath him. Bilbo spends the following hours alternating between fretting over the dwarf and silently seething at him, folding the heavy blankets down to Thorin’s waist and jostling him awake at every now and again to make him drink, coaxing when Thorin groans and turns his face away from the cup. He lays a wet cloth over Thorin’s brow, taking it back intermittently to press it against his ruddy cheeks and throat before dunking it into the basin to soak. 

Bungo used to say that there was a time and a place for anger, that it does nobody any good to throw a fit and cause a ruckus before matters have a chance of being resolved. So as much as Bilbo would like to smash a pot against the floor or shake Thorin awake to demand a proper answer to his question, he instead pushes their conversation to the back of his mind and focuses on the task at hand. He’ll confront Thorin when takes to waking naturally, when his skin doesn’t feel as warm as a sun-baked stone.

Just before dawn Thorin’s arm begins to bleed again, red stains seeping through the clean spread of the bandages. Bilbo’s heart quickens at the sight, and he rushes off to find Oin, stumbling to a stop in the next room once he spots a small dwarf slumped over and half-asleep in the chair by the fire.

“Ori?”

Ori’s chin lifts up from his chest, his narrow shoulders twitching he scrambles to his feet, knuckling the sleep from his eye with one hand and straightening out his wrinkled tunic with the other.

“Morning, Bilbo,” he says, the words slow and muddled by the yawn he tries to suppress. “I think it is, at least. What do you need?” 

“Oin,” Bilbo says. “Now.”

Ori takes off in a run and Bilbo goes back to Thorin’s side, plucking at edges of his dressings, unsure if he should wait for Oin before peeling them back to see what’s happening underneath. Thorin stirs at his touch, his eyes cracking open. They look very dark, his pupils blown wide, so dilated there’s only a thin sliver of blue remaining to encircle them. 

“Are you awake properly, this time?” Bilbo asks, feigning a lightness he doesn’t feel.

Thorin doesn’t answer, but some focus returns to his sleepy eyes and the weight of his gaze pulls at Bilbo like a hook that’s been pierced through his navel. 

“What is it?” Bilbo asks, caught between feeling defensive and concerned. Thorin used to look at him like that back when they first met, studying Bilbo as though he were a puzzle that Thorin didn’t know was worth the effort of piecing together or not.

Oin arrives looking ruffled and tired, his moustache frizzing up to match his hair and his beard unraveling from its braids. But his hands remain steady as he tends to Thorin, passing off the bandages to Bilbo and keeping him by his side to assist. Thorin is awake through it all, saying nothing but occasionally twitching away from Oin’s fingers or making a low, pained sound deep in his throat. Bilbo changes his cold compress and pushes back the strands of hair sticking to his hot, damp skin. 

“How long has he been running a fever?” Oin asks, louder than what’s strictly necessary. His ear trumpet is tucked away into his pocket.

“A few hours now,” Bilbo says. “It wasn’t so bad, before.”

“There’s a pouch on the table there.” Oin juts his chin towards a little cloth bag. “Make him a tea with what’s inside. It will help.”

Bilbo nods, filling the kettle and setting it over the fire to boil as Oin rewraps Thorin’s arm. The tea has a strong scent to it, spicy but with an underlining sweetness, and Bilbo thinks he might just recognize it as something his mother once gave to him while he was sick in bed as a young tween. 

Thorin turns his face away from the brew. He murmurs something in khuzdul, his voice rolling like thunder even as his tongue seems to fumble over the words, muddling the language and softening its harsh tones. Bilbo understands enough to pick out the general meaning: _go away, I’m tired._

Oin makes an exasperated sound and answers him in kind, but still Thorin remains reluctant to drink. Bilbo puffs out his cheeks, huffing beneath his breath as he bustles forward, snapping his fingers to recapture Thorin’s attention.

“The sooner you drink it the sooner we’ll leave you alone,” he says.

Thorin sighs, a long and slow stream of air hissing out from between his teeth.

“You seem to have an encouraging manner, Master Hobbit,” Oin says once Thorin has finished his tea and settled back down to sleep, his breath evening out into a slow, relaxed rhythm.

“Well, I suppose that’s a nicer way to put it than ‘bossy’,” Bilbo says, wiping down his hands. “Do you think the bleeding will start again?”

“It shouldn’t, but I can’t say for certain. Not yet.” Oin frowns at Bilbo. “You look like you could use a lie down. Why don’t you go on and get some rest?” 

“But, Dis—that is, Lady Dis wanted someone to stay with him.”

“And someone will, but you’ve been here all night long and will be no good to anyone dead on your feet, hm?”

Bilbo shifts his weight from one leg to the other, unsure, and Oin shakes his head, pointing at the door and warning Bilbo that he’s not above sending for guards to drag him away if need be.

“They’d be more than pleased with that, I’m sure,” Bilbo says beneath his breath, too low for Oin to fully hear. In a louder voice he adds, “Fine, I’ll go. But I’ll be back later.”

“I would hope so, Master Baggins. How else am I to convince His Majesty to take his medicine?”

The bustle of the infirmary has lessoned somewhat over the course of the night, though there are still dwarves lingering in the waiting areas and frazzled runners darting about. The guards at the door are not the same dwarves who denied Bilbo passage earlier, and as he passes by one stirs and says something quietly to their companion, peeling away from the wall to shadow Bilbo as he makes to leave.

Bilbo suppresses a sigh as he looks over his shoulder, telling himself it’s good sense and not paranoia that keeps him rooted near the exit.

“Good morning,” he says.

“I’m to accompany you, Master Hobbit,” the guard says. Her helm covers much of her face but her voice has a pleasant sound to it, deep and throaty. “By order of Lady Dis.”

“Oh. Um… why, precisely?”

There’s a click from the armour as the dwarf tilts her head to the side. “For your protection, I would think.”

Bilbo risks a smile. It comes out thinner than he means it to. “I wasn’t aware I was in need of any.”

“I’m sure it’s only a precaution.”

“Of course it is,” Bilbo says, nodding stiffly and resisting the urge to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Far be it for any dwarf to actually consult him on the decisions being made on his behalf. 

The guard offers little in the way of conversation while they walk, the silence between them only disturbed by the heavy sound of her footfalls and the persistent rattle of chainmail. Bilbo wonders what her opinion on this is, if she thinks her time is being wasted or if she’s truly readying herself for danger, peering into the dark corners of the mountain or casting suspicious gazes over all the dwarves passing by them. 

“I don’t see why some would someone want to attack me, anyways,” Bilbo murmurs to himself, jumping when the dwarf replies.

“You’re a guest of the king, Master Hobbit.”

“But I’m no Lord or ambassador. I’m just…” Bilbo waves his hand through the air, shrugging.

“You’re important, as far as His Majesty seems concerned. It would be poor manners besides, leaving you to traipse around on your own at such a time.”

Bilbo looks up at the dwarf. He suspects he’s being made a joke of, but it’s impossible for him to tell while her face is covered.

“May I?” She says when they reach Bilbo’s room, pushing on ahead and entering before Bilbo gives permission. She scans the main area, holding up a hand when Bilbo moves to follow and ducking into the water closet after telling him to stay put.

Bilbo crosses his arms, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth and tapping his foot atop the knitted rug that lies just inside his door.

“You’re not going to check under the bed?” Bilbo calls, and oh, he really must be more fed up than he thought he was, to be so snide to a perfect stranger.

The guard reappears, yanking the helm from her head and offering Bilbo an unimpressed look. She pats down her red-yellow beard before dropping to her knees next to the bedframe, pushing the hanging edge of the blanket aside as she looks.

“Nothing more than dust. Feel better?”

“To be honest, I just feel tired.”

The dwarf straightens, keeping her helm tucked beneath her arm. “I’ll remain outside your door. If anyone comes to call on you I’ll announce them.”

“I’ll… keep that in mind,” Bilbo says. “Thank you, Miss…?” 

“Nira. No ‘Miss’ necessary.”

Bilbo sees to the fire after she leaves, taking a moment to look over the room himself, his eyes lingering on the cluster of quills and the short stack of parchment he’d laid out across his small desk just this morning. He’d been feeling so pleased earlier, any initial apprehension he had over teaching Kili elvish whisked away by the excitement of being able to delve fully back into the language with a willing student. How is it possible for so much to have changed in just a few short hours? 

Bilbo’s hands are shaking when he climbs into bed, his trembling fingers clutching at the furs as he rolls himself beneath them, curling up into a tight ball and tucking his feet close to his body.

It’s catching up to him, all of a sudden, the fear and relief, the flash of elation that came with Thorin’s lips brushing against his knuckles and the crushing disappointment that followed. And now on top of it all there’s Bilbo’s current predicament, the apparent target on his back, there for reasons he can’t even begin to fathom, a danger he thought he’d left behind when he decided to stay in Erebor.

He laughs, a high pitch sound that he tries to stifle with the blanket. He considers undressing, considers drawing a bath and scrubbing himself pink, but instead he just buries his face into his pillow, telling himself it’s no good to yearn for home now, of all times. He had his chance to leave, after all, and couldn’t possibly abandon his friends now, not in the midst of all this.

Sleep doesn’t come. Bilbo turns onto his stomach, his back, wraps himself into his blankets like a caterpillar in a cocoon before balling them up between his hands and throwing them down to the floor in a heap. He smacks his pillow and rubs at his eyes and counts upwards in pairs of twos, but his thoughts rattle about in his head and refuse to be drowned out. 

_I shouldn’t have done that,_ Thorin’s had said, and Bilbo wanted to strike him, wanted to press his palms to Thorin’s bearded cheeks and kiss his mouth and tell him he was absolutely right –that’s what he should have done instead. What right does Thorin have to play such games, to draw Bilbo in close only to then push him away, offering nothing more than a glib response as his defense? 

Bilbo breathes deep, clamping down on that thought before it can go any further. His anger drains from him in a sudden rush, melting into guilty pool that sits sticky and thick in the pit of his stomach. He’s owed a better explanation, certainly, but this I not the time to fixate on such things, not while Thorin lies in bed feverish and bleeding. Perhaps Thorin hadn’t even meant to do it. He had awoken still half caught in a dream, and had hardly appeared fully lucid afterwards.

Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe Thorin was right, in thinking it a mistake.

It’s just past noon when Bilbo rises, gritty-eyed and groggy, doubting that he managed to get anything more than a wink of sleep. He washes his face briskly over the basin and changes his clothes, smoothing out his hair the best he can with his palms. Just before he leaves he peeks down into the cedar chest, pulling up Sting from where it sits atop a folded pair of doe-skin leggings. It takes him a moment of fiddling to properly attach the sheath to his belt, but its weight against his leg is solid and comforting and well worth bearing for all the raised eyebrows and strange glances it’s bound to cost him.

 

 

If Bilbo were ever asked to describe the nature of dwarves in one word, he is call but certain he would choose ‘resilient’. He’s always thought of them as being a hardy folk, that much is plain to see in their stout builds and broad shoulders. But over the past year Bilbo’s come to realize that it’s a trait found not only their bodies, but spirits as well. Once he might have been willing to dismiss such a quality as simple stubbornness, but more recently Bilbo has found himself a taken aback time and time again when faced with the sheer force of dwarven endurance.

Living in Erebor serves as a constant reminder of this, being present to witness the tireless work ethic of the dwarves as they rebuild their home stone by stone into the kingdom they remember it to be. Even now, amidst a wave of chaos and with the king lying injured, not for a moment does the progress in Erebor’s restoration seem to stutter. 

Dain organizes a team to repair the chimneys hardly more than a day after their collapse, and upon hearing the news nearly every worker that was present for the incident insists that they be let out of the infirmary to help. Oin grumbles and shakes his head at the requests, making a point of checking over each dwarf personally before clearing them to go. While visiting the infirmary Bilbo comes to overhear more than one story of some fellow trying to pull the wool over Oin’s eyes only to break out into a coughing fit at the end of their examination, so severe it left them breathless and drenched in sweat.

Oin shrugs when Bilbo asks him what harm the others see in taking the time to heal.

“We don’t do well with idleness, our kind,” he says.

Oin’s point is proven by just how quickly news of what happened in the forges flits across the mountain, moving at a rate that surely rivals the spread of gossip even in the Shire. By the time Lady Dis makes a formal announcement on the matter, standing above the court with her back to the empty throne, it’s done more to disperse baseless rumours than to reveal anything new. She calls what happened to the chimneys an accident, Bilbo notes, but admits to the assassination attempt, inviting anyone with information to come forward and speak with her.

Very few do, and Bilbo shivers, cold despite his heavy layers.

Thorin is praised as a hero. He becomes known as a king who loves his people, who not only won back the Lonely Mountain for them but who stayed to help in a crisis where others would have fled, whose sacrifice and nobility has been repaid with an unjust, cowardly attack. Bilbo thinks to tell Thorin of this, but despite how often he’s stationed at Thorin’s bedside over following days he never seems to find the proper chance.

He doesn’t ask Dis why she insisted that Bilbo take up the mantle of nursemaid for the time being, keen to think that he already has a fair idea of the answer. It’s made clear enough by the increase of guards stationed in the infirmary, as well as the ones following about not only Bilbo but Fili and Kili, that she doesn’t think the danger has yet passed.

“You’re worrying too much,” Thorin tells her, sitting stiffly in an overstuffed chair that’s been pulled close to the fire while Bilbo makes quick work of changing his bedding. 

Dis looks up from the unrolled scroll in her hands, her thumb marking her spot in the reports. 

“The problem is you never seem to worry enough, not when it comes to your own life or the lives of—” she cuts herself off, paper crinkling beneath her clenching fingers. Thorin looks up at her, struck silent and wide-eyed, and says very little for the rest of the meeting.

Thorin’s recovery is swift, though not nearly enough so to satisfy him. His cough improves and the bleeds come with less and less frequency until stopping altogether, though his fever stubbornly persists throughout the week. Sometimes, Bilbo catches at him staring at the stitches in his arm while his bandages are being changed or gazing down at his hands, his thumb twitching feebly against the blankets as he tries to make a fist. 

“Oin says it may get better yet,” Bilbo says, watching as Thorin’s shoulders jerk and stiffen, as the faraway look in his eyes shifts into something steely and hard.

“Considering my injuries this is hardly the worst outcome,” Thorin says. His dismissive tone makes Bilbo bristle, makes him want to point out how clearly bothered Thorin is by his wounds all the same. But he keeps his mouth shut and teeth clamped together, not wanting to be cruel.

It’s the most they say to each other that day. For all the time they spend in the same room they hardly have a moment to themselves. Most mornings when Bilbo enters someone is already there with Thorin, Dain keeping him up to date on the repairs or Balin telling him the news. Other times Thorin appears to sleep throughout the day, though Bilbo is neither blind nor deaf and notices that his breathing is not always as deep and even as it should were he truly dead to the world.

It’s a strange feeling to have, wanting to accuse someone of avoiding you even when you’re in the same room with them. 

 

 

A little more than a week from the day of the incident, Bilbo leaves the infirmary one evening to find Bofur waiting for him.

“Bilbo!” He says, his merry eyes practically sparkling with delight, as if this meeting is some kind of unexpected surprise. 

“Evening, Bofur,” Bilbo says, trying smile, to not let his exhaustion make him cranky. He runs his hand through his limp curls, wincing slightly at the oily feel of his hair. He doesn’t even want to think of how he must look, groggy and clammy, his tunic sticking to the thin layer of sweat at the nape of his neck.

“Well come on, let’s not be late,” Bofur says, stepping forward and offering Bilbo his arm.

“Late? To what?”

“I’m inviting you to dinner,” Bofur says.

“This is an invitation, is it?”

“Oh, do you not want to come?”

Bilbo rolls his eyes at Bofur’s put upon, pitiful expression, and takes his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. What kind of hobbit would I be, to turn down both a meal and friendly company?” 

“Will your shadow be joining us?” Bofur asks, casting an over eye at Nira, hovering behind them.

“I’ll follow and remain outside,” she says.

“Pity.” Bofur’s face splits into a cheeky grin that he finishes off with a wink. Nira calmly rests the heel of her hand over the pommel of her sword, lifting an eyebrow.

“You weren’t given a guard, I notice,” Bilbo says at they begin to walk, Nira’s heavy boots thumping along behind them.

“Well, I’m just a miner. Offing me wouldn’t send much of a message, now would it?”

Bofur isn’t quiet for a moment, telling Bilbo of the new iron deposits his team discovered just yesterday and the small cluster of diamonds that have been found in the next tunnel over. His mood and energy are infectious, and soon enough Bilbo finds himself smiling and nodding along, asking questions if only to encourage Bofur to keep going.

The home the Ur family has claimed for themselves is a great deal smaller than many of the others Bilbo has visited. It has coziness to it, the ceilings lower than what seems customary for Erebor, the hearth perhaps a little too large for the sitting room. It’s the closest reminder Bilbo’s had yet to his own lovely smial, and he aches at the sight of it. 

Bifur is sitting at the table when they arrive, tinkering with mass of steel wires and thin cuts of pinewood while a pot of stew bubbles on the stove. He greets Bilbo with a nod and fluttering hand gesture while Bofur goes to examine the food.

“Are you eating?” Bofur asks his cousin. Bifur shakes his head and murmurs something low in khuzdul, standing as he begins to clear away his things.

“You don’t have to do that,” Bilbo says. Bifur waves him off and pats Bilbo’s shoulder, lumbering away into the next room.

Bofur places two bowls onto the table. “Don’t worry about him, Bilbo. He’ll eat when he likes.”

“But—”

“It’s just how he is. Best to leave him be.”

The stew is watery and would benefit from a few more cut vegetables and spices, but it’s hot in Bilbo’s stomach and Bofur tells him to help himself to seconds before he even manages to finish his bowl. Bofur asks what he’s been up to and Bilbo tells him a little of the translations he’s still been managing to work on here and there, biting back a smile when Bofur wrinkles his nose at the word _elf_ and doing his best not to ramble on for too long.

“That all sounds awfully boring, I’m sorry to say,” Bofur mumbles around a mouthful of stew.

“Well, it gets a little tiresome when you’re on your fourteenth report on coal shipments, I’ll admit. It will be important though, if the rumours I’ve heard of Thorin opening up trade to the elves again is true.”

“Speaking of, how is our king?”

“Better. He’s been…” Quiet. Troubled. Aloof. “Better.”

“We were in the mines when it all happened, Bifur and I.” Bofur says, ripping a warm loaf in two and pushing half towards Bilbo. “Double shift. Only came back up in the morning to find the whole mountain turned upside down with the news.”

“You’ve been kept informed, though?”

“Oh, aye. Reckon with something like this going on Thorin needs to keep those loyal to him as close as possible. Dwalin’s even been chatting to Bifur about joining the royal guard. Do you want a cup of ale?” 

“He—? Oh, no, thank you. What did Bifur have to say to that?”

“He’s thinking about it.” Bofur pushes away from the table to grab himself a drink of his own, pouring ale from the large barrel sitting on the counter. “ _And_ I heard Lady Dis has been asking Dori to act as one of the king’s personal guards.”

Bilbo chokes on a clump of chicken and laughs. “My, my. Well, Dori is very strong…”

“Strong indeed, but can’t you just imagine him fussing over Thorin? Telling him his boots need cleaning or that he should be putting on a cloak because the weather outside the mountains is a little chilly…”

Bilbo snickers into his stew. “He’ll be a guard, Bofur, not a nanny.”

“Good luck telling him the difference.”

Bilbo laughs outright at that. His mouth is starting to ache a little from smiling so much, but it’s a good kind of pain, the kind that makes him feel light in a way he hasn’t for a long while.

“There now, that’s better.” Bofur says, nodding. “You seemed a little down, earlier.”

“Did I? I just had a long day, that’s all.”

“Really? Because I’ve heard you’ve been moping around the infirmary all week.”

“What? Did Oin tell you that?”

“Well, you know, we do talk sometimes.”

Bilbo sniffs. “I haven’t been _moping_. Quite a lot has happened lately, you might have noticed. I think I’m more than allowed to be a little put off by it.”

“’Course you are. It’s just—” Bofur tugs at the jaunty flaps of his cap, a gesture Bilbo’s noticed he’s taken to doing when he’s starting to feel uncomfortable. “I’d like to think that we’re friends, Bilbo. So if something’s bothering you, I wouldn’t want you to feel like you couldn’t tell me.”

“We are friends,” Bilbo says, leaning forward in his seat, his brows pulling in with concern. “And I’m fine, really, I’m just—”

“Is it about Thorin?” Bofur asks.

The chair beneath Bilbo creaks as his sits upright. “What? Why would it be?”

“Just an inkling I have. Half the mountain already thinks you’re buggering the king anyways, so I won’t exactly be surprised if—”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“Oh, so you’re not?” Bofur’s expression falls. “Well, that just cost me twenty coppers.” 

Bilbo stares at him, his mouth going dry as a harsh prickling feeling starts crawling up at the back of his neck before skittering down his spine. Without a bother for manners or courtesy he reaches across the table, snatching up Bofur’s mug of ale and downing the remainder of it in one long pull.

“You made a bet. On that,” he says at last, gasping as he pulls the mug away. 

Bofur has the good grace to at least look a little ashamed of himself as he shifts in his seat, nodding.

“With who?”

“I… feel I shouldn’t say.”

Bilbo takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and rubbing at his temples, giving his shock a moment to settle.

“Half the mountain,” he says. “Truly?”

“Well, that might have been a slight exaggeration.”

Bilbo looks down at his nearly empty bowl, stirring a lone slice of carrot round the bottom and thinking back to the discussion he had with Balin, standing out on a balcony away from sensitive ears. He remembers how the old dwarf had looked at him when he revealed the intimacy of touching brows, peering down at Bilbo with a knowing look edged with a question that he never bothered to voice.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised,” Bilbo grumbles.

“If it helps, most find the rumors to be terribly romantic.”

Bilbo’s not sure that it does, but then, he supposes that’s still better than the alternative. Dis’ choice to saddle him with a guard makes all the more sense, now. Whether or not she believes the rumours, if she suspects that there are others in Erebor opposing Thorin, his lover would make a fine target for a second attack indeed.

Bofur is fiddling with one of his braids when Bilbo looks up, frowning once he seems to realize it’s a little crooked. Bilbo’s sure that if he told Bofur that whatever was going on between Thorin and him was none of his business the dwarf would simply raise his hands in defeat and leave him alone without another word spoken on the matter. But then, they _were_ friends, weren’t they? And why shouldn’t Bilbo share what’s been on his mind, what’s been eating away at him ever since that night when Thorin laid his warm hand over Bilbo’s knee in a silent, open invitation for more?

Bilbo says, “We were... we spent a night together. Just before we reached Beorn’s house.”

Bofur perks back up, his hands falling away from his hair.

“Really?”

“If you had another bet on that I’d rather not hear about it,” Bilbo says sternly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “And I think you should be offering me another drink.”

Bofur does just that, taking his own mug back from Bilbo and returning to the table with two after clearing away their bowls. It’s a different ale, this time. Darker and rich on Bilbo’s tongue, leaving behind an oaky aftertaste.

“So…” Bofur drawls. “It was only the once?”

Bilbo hums into his drink.

“That is surprising. We all assumed you both—”

Bilbo holds up his hand, his palm facing Bofur. “Please, I don’t think I need to hear what the lot of you thought we were doing.” 

“Did you have a falling out afterwards, then?”

“No, nothing like that. There never seemed to be a chance for anything more. Not in Mirkwood, certainly. And then everything with the dragon happened, and the battle after that. Eventually, I came to assume that Thorin lost interest after so long. But the other night he—he did something that made me wonder.”

Bilbo pauses. He half expects Bofur to ask for more details and feels unsure as to whether or not he wants to give them. It’s one thing to admit he’s slept with Thorin, but quite another to share the small, private intimacy that came along with the kiss Thorin placed to the back of Bilbo’s hand.

But all Bofurs asks is, “Then what’s the problem?”

“He seemed to regret it, afterwards.”

“Seemed to?” 

“He said he shouldn’t have done it.”

“I’m not certain that’s the same thing as regretting it.”

“Well, it’s not very encouraging, all the same.”

Bofur tilts his head, squinting slightly as though he’s trying to piece something together. “Have you talked to him about it?”

“No.” Bilbo shakes his head. “No, how could I? It happened days ago, and with everything else going on…”

“You haven’t found a chance, again? I’m sorry, Bilbo, but that sounds a bit like an excuse.” 

Bofur’s tone isn’t unkind, but his words irk Bilbo all the same. 

“It’s not an excuse,” Bilbo says, feeling suddenly defensive and tetchy. “Thorin is wounded and has other problems to deal with. Besides, he was barely even awake when he—when he did what he did. He probably didn’t mean anything by it. It would be selfish of me, to bring it up again now.”

“So?”

Bilbo sputters. “ _So,_ I can’t just—”

“Sure you can,” Bofur says. He pauses before going on, smiling even in the face of Bilbo’s uncomprehending stare. “Be selfish, Bilbo. You just told me that Thorin acted upon you. I think you’re allowed to ask what that means.”

Bilbo looks down at his hands, rubbing his nail into the groove etched along the mug. “Suppose I don’t want to hear what he has to say.”

“You wouldn’t be making that face if that were true.”

Bilbo hunches his shoulders, looking back up at Bofur’s cheerful face through the limp fall of his bangs. With a frustrated groan he sweeps them aside and raises his drink, polishing off nearly the entire mug in one go, gulping back ale until his tongue feels scrubbed raw and his throat burns.

“Ah…” Bofur hands flutter out towards him tentatively when Bilbo lowers the mug. “Need another, then?”

Bilbo nods, pulling a handkerchief out from his sleeve and dabbing it politely against his lips. “Yes, I think so.”

 

 

Bilbo wakes up regretting that decision, greeting the morning in his own bed but with drool on his chin and a headache pounding behind his swollen eyes.

“Never again,” he groans, dragging himself out from beneath the covers, almost falling headfirst towards the floor. His stomach turns as he stands and a sick taste laps at the back of his tongue. Bilbo closes his eyes, pressing his hand to his mouth, his shoulders falling limp with relief when the ill feeling slowly subsides. He vaguely remembers leaving Bofur’s home with his friend’s best wishes ringing in his ears, but doesn’t recall the walk back to his room. 

“I think I owe you a thank you,” he says to Nira sheepishly in place of his usual hello, stepping out into the hallway after a short bath and thorough grooming. “And maybe an apology. I hope I wasn’t rude, or—”

“Fear not, Master Baggins,” she tells him, pushing away from the wall, her lips tugging at the corners like she’s fighting down a grin. “You were a perfect gentle-hobbit while I guided you home. You just talked about what a lovely fellow your friend is and said I should have taken up his offer for dinner.”

“Oh. Well, you certainly should have. It was very good.”

Breakfast is a meager affair, what with Bilbo feeling too groggy to risk eating anything more than a slice of toasted bread with honey. Fili and Kili are the only dwarves to join him, and they spend the entirety of the meal teasing Bilbo for his ale-head and snickering over their plates.

“What was the occasion?” Kili asks.

“And why weren’t we invited?” Fili adds.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Bilbo says primly, wincing when Kili scrapes his fork against his teeth. 

Bilbo continues to wave off their questions, but the more they ask the more he begins to think back on his conversation with Bofur, mulling over his friend’s advice as he leaves for the infirmary. 

Bofur had said nothing to Bilbo that he hadn’t already thought himself –of course he deserves to know why Thorin acted as he did. But Bofur may have been right in saying Bilbo was making excuses not to ask. After all, Bilbo could have simply told Thorin he knew he was feigning sleep, could have waited out his meetings in the seating area and then march right back in to the room to have a chat with the king alone.

Maybe Bilbo’s been afraid. Just a little. It’s a smaller fear than the one that came with standing eye to eye with a dragon, but it’s also one that stems from the heart, and Bilbo thinks he deserves some leeway for that. 

He finds Thorin still asleep, lying on his back with his face turned away, a lock of silver hair caught between his parted lips. Given the choice, Bilbo knows that Thorin would prefer to doze on his belly. He can remember many nights beneath the stars when he would turn over on his bedroll and spot Thorin lying face down with his head pillowed in his arms. It made Bilbo laugh, the first time he saw it, oddly charmed by the sight. Thorin had twitched at the sound, narrowing his eyes at Bilbo from over the line of his shoulder before huffing out a low breath and rolling onto his side.

Bilbo checks Thorin’s bandages and takes his temperature, his lips thinning at the hot, clammy feel of his skin. Thorin stirs at the touch, his brows pulling in as he shifts against the mattress, wincing when he tries to arch his back and stretch.

“Stop that,” Bilbo says, clicking his tongue as gives Thorin’s arm a firm tap. “You could still pull your stitches if you’re not careful.”

“It’s too hot,” Thorin mumbles.

“Your fever still hasn’t broken. I’ll make you another batch of tea soon.”

Thorin makes a sound low in his throat, his mouth twisting in displeasure. 

“You are worst than a child like this, do you know that?” Bilbo says, moving towards the cupboard where he’s stashed away the clean towels. It’s become a regular routine, bathing Thorin’s brow first thing in the morning, washing away any lingering sweat from the night before. 

“Bilbo?”

Bilbo stills, his arm outstretched, looking back to find Thorin blinking at him owlishly, lifting his hand to scrub at his face and wincing as the stitches along his arm pull against the motion. 

Even now, after everything, Thorin so rarely calls Bilbo by his name. Bilbo bites back his urge to question what it means, that Thorin’s using it now, of all times.

“Yes, it’s me,” Bilbo says slowly. Thorin’s clearly still half-asleep. Of course he is –he would not speak so freely, otherwise. Bilbo’s stomach twists in on itself at the thought. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Thorin starts to shuffle his way up the bed, and Bilbo rushes over to help, straightening out the pillows behind his back. “Better, than I have been.”

“Good. You’ll be back on your feet any time now.”

“I could have been back on them days ago.”

“Not according to Oin.”

Thorin huffs, wrinkling his nose, and Bilbo leans away out of his reach when Thorin moves to take the wet cloth clutched between his hands.

“I’m not helpless,” Thorin says.

“No, and you’re certainly more like yourself today, I’ll give you that. But your wounds are still paining you, I can tell.”

Thorin lifts his brows, his voice dry when he asks, “Can you?” 

“You wouldn’t have been sleeping on your back if they weren’t,” Bilbo says smartly, smirking a little when Thorin blinks at him in response. “So stop being stubborn.”

And with that Bilbo presses the small towel to Thorin’s face, telling him to tip up his chin as he drags it over his cheeks and along strong line of his nose, waiting for Thorin’s eyes to shut so he can press it gently against his fluttering lids.

“And I’m the stubborn one,” Thorin rumbles, but Bilbo doesn’t miss the slight, amused pull at his lips.

Bilbo ducks his head, and the back of his neck feels warm as he swipes a damp path over Thorin’s pale throat. 

He doubts he’ll find a better time than now to bring it up, when here they are, together and alone with conversation flowing between the more easily than it has in days.

 _Be selfish_ , Bofur had said. And Bilbo pulls in a long, slow breath and thinks, _all right, all right, no more excuses, Baggins._

“About… about the other night.”

Bilbo doesn’t lift his eyes, keeps his chin tucked down and close to his chest, watching as the stone in Thorin’s throat bobs beneath the soft press of his hand.

“The other night,” Thorin repeats, the low hum of his voice reverberating through the cloth and against Bilbo’s fingertips.

“Please.” The word comes out quiet, nothing more than a hushed whisper, and Bilbo clenches his teeth, clears his throat and forces himself to say the rest plainly. “Don’t insult me by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Thorin says nothing. When Bilbo lifts his head he finds Thorin looking away from him, his jaw hard and his shoulders hunched, rolled forward defensively. 

“I wasn’t fully certain if that had happened or not,” Thorin says.

A weight drops in Bilbo’s stomach. He wants to kick himself for his idiocy, wants to hide his face away in his hands. Of course Thorin hadn’t been aware of what he was doing, of course it hadn’t meant anything. Bilbo is such a fool to allow himself to believe otherwise. He knew this was a possibility all along, and yet he still somehow convinced himself that perhaps it wasn’t so, allowed his pitiful hopes to get the better of him and make him think that maybe, just maybe, Thorin still wants him. 

Bilbo turns away, wringing out the towel and wetting it anew, hoping that Thorin will look past the heat rising to his cheeks, the tremors twitching along his fingers. “No? Did you think you had kissed some other hobbit’s hand?”

He tries to say the words lightly, as though he’s only teasing, but his disappointment takes hold of his tongue and makes them taste harsh and bitter instead.

Thorin is quiet for a long moment, and Bilbo refuses to look at his face. He forces himself to continue on with his work, dragging the cloth down through the open gap in Thorin’s thin nightshirt as an excuse to keep his eyes down and his head bowed.

“I thought I apologized,” Thorin says. “I meant to.”

“You didn’t,” Bilbo says. And because he’s tired of pretending, of sidestepping his own feelings again and again, he goes on to add, “And I truly can’t believe that you are so great a fool to think that’s what I want to hear.”

Bilbo brings the cloth lower without thinking, his movements made swift and uncoordinated with anger, pushing it over the dark whorls of hair on Thorin’s chest.

Thorin’s breath hitches. He grabs at Bilbo’s shoulder, his fingers clumsy and fumbling, and Bilbo startles and looks up, fearing he’s somehow hurt Thorin even though he hasn’t so much as brushed against the edge of his bandages— 

Desire, as hot and languid as liquid gold, pools in Thorin’s eyes. Under Bilbo’s stare Thorin’s fevered flush deepens, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as his breathing slows into long, drawn out pants.

Bilbo goes still, as if in a flash he’s been turned into a figure crafted from stone. He should be trying to puzzle out what this means, should ask Thorin here and now to just say if this is what he wants or not. But instead, unbidden, his thoughts turn to what would happen if he dragged the cloth lower still, if he were to abandon it all together to push down Thorin’s trousers and press his cool, damp hands against Thorin’s heated thighs. Would Thorin tremble beneath his touch? Would he arch his back and cant his hips and say _please_?

“Thorin—”

The door swings open. Thorin pulls his hand away as if he’s been burned and Bilbo jumps back, twisting around to watch as Dwalin strolls forward, kicking the door shut behind him without even breaking his stride. He must be quick to take in the mood of the room because he halts abruptly before the bed, looking back and forth between Bilbo and Thorin, a thin line creasing the skin between his brows.

“Am I interrupting something?” He asks.

“No,” Thorin says.

“Don’t be silly,” Bilbo answers at just the same time.

Dwalin narrows his eyes. He doesn’t comment any further but the slightest hint of a smirk begins to curve along the hard shape of his mouth. 

“What do you want?” Thorin asks. Bilbo turns to him, startled by his harsh tone, but Dwalin’s only shrugs his heavy shoulders, his grin remaining firmly in place.

“Balin’s tied up with Dain at the moment, so I come bearing news.” Dwalin glances at Bilbo, an air of amusement hovering over him as he says, “Shouldn’t you be changing his bandages?”

“Ah… yes, actually,” Bilbo says, and sets off to do just that, his movements tentative and jerky as unbuttons Thorin’s shirt and pushes it off his shoulders, very aware of warmness of Thorin’s skin, of his faded scars and the pale scattering of freckles over his biceps, of Dwalin’s eyes boring into the back of Bilbo’s neck. 

Dwalin pulls out a crumpled scroll and begins reading through it, telling Thorin the number of dwarves that have returned to work and how their food stocks are holding, reading out a short note from Dain detailing the state of the chimneys and going on to say that ravens have been sent out to Dale and Mirkwood.

“Are you side-stepping news of the assassin?” Thorin asks eventually, cutting through Dwalin’s droning before gritting his teeth against the pain of Bilbo’s touch. The gash along his arm is healing poorly, the skin around the stitches red and raw with infection. Bilbo murmurs a quiet apology as he presses a rag soaked with vinegar to it, and Thorin’s fingers twitch and his shoulder hitches but he doesn’t try to pull away.

“There’s nothing new to report,” Dwalin says. “He’s clammed up. Won’t do much more than whimper every now and then. I think you should start considering his sentence.”

“He’s only—”

“He’s of age.”

“Hardly.”

“ _Hardly_ is enough.”

Thorin looks down at his wrapped hand, his thumb twitching slightly towards his palm but not quite folding to meet it. “Do you think he’s protecting someone?”

“Couldn’t say for certain, but you’ve read the reports. Everyone who knows him says he’s a quiet boy that keeps to himself. Not too many associates apart from his father and a few young friends.”

“I want to offer him a deal,” Thorin says, lifting his eyes. “Tell him that if he can give us the names of any fellow conspirators, or if he can offer any new information as to what happened in the forges—”

“There’s no proof he had anything to do with that.”

“No, but I refuse to believe it’s a mere coincidence. No one dwarf could have collapsed all those chimneys in such a short amount of time. He was a part of it, somehow, and if we’re to have a rebellion on our hands I’d rather have knowledge of it now while it can still be contained. Tell the boy that he can keep his life if has any valuable information to trade for it.”

Dwalin crosses his arms. “That’s very generous.” 

Beneath his hands, Bilbo can feel Thorin stiffen. 

“You think I should just kill him, instead?”

“He tried to kill you, let’s remember.”

“Surely there’s going to be a trial of some sort?” Bilbo interjects, unable to stop himself. “You’re getting a little ahead of yourselves, aren’t you?”

“Of course there’ll be a trial,” Thorin says, offhandedly, not looking away from Dwalin’s eyes.

“Won’t be much of one if he has nothing to say about his actions,” Dwalin says. “And it’s no as though Thorin can simply set him free with a warning.”

“Banishment is not yet out of the question.”

“Even Balin thinks that may be too lenient.”

“Forgive me for not wanting to begin my reign by beheading a sobbing youth.”

“You began your reign by reclaiming our homeland.”

Thorin throws back his head and laughs. Bilbo looks up, and doesn’t think he’s imagining the flash of concern that skitters across Dwalin’s face.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says, his fingers stilling for a moment over the unmarked skin at the base of his wrist. “There’s no lie in that.”

“And yet it sounds far prettier than the truth.”

“Stop it,” Dwalin snarls. “Stop. This isn’t what we’re talking about.”

“Fine,” Thorin says, and something in his demeanor shifts as his soured mirth fades, turns icy and disinterested. “Then what else do you have to report?”

Dwalin bares his teeth in an unfriendly smile.

“The assassin’s father has been asking for an audience.”

“Dis mentioned that. I’ll be on the throne the day after tomorrow to receive the people. He can be the first.”

“Oh? What does Oin have to say to that?”

Thorin glares and doesn’t bother to respond.

“Right,” Dwalin says. “Well in that case, I’ll take my leave of you, Sire.”

Dwalin bows stiffly and departs, pulling open the door hard enough to make it rattle on its hinges. Bilbo watches him go, crossing his arms and turning to Thorin once they’re alone again. 

“You do know he’s acting like that because he’s worried, don’t you?”

Thorin lowers his chin, his hair tumbling forward to hide his face. “Then he’s being foolish.”

“Of course. Clearly you’re just fine,” Bilbo snipes, gathering up the soiled dressings.

He works silently for the next few minutes, making sure that Thorin has water by his side and checking to see if Oin’s left behind any tools in need of cleaning. He glances back towards the bed only when Thorin clears his throat.

“Do you agree with him?” Thorin asks.

“About?”

“The deal.”

“I’m no dwarf and this is not my kingdom. I’m not sure if my opinion should be given much weight.”

“I want to know it, all the same.”

Bilbo sighs, setting aside the basin his in his hands before going to sit tentatively on the edge of the bed.

“I think you need information more than you need bloodshed. But… I also think Dwalin is afraid this will happen again if you’re too lenient with your punishment.” Bilb shakes his head, scratching at the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I would do in your place.”

Thorin gazes at him for a long moment, the hard line of his mouth offset by the uncertainty in his eyes.

“I’m keeping you,” Thorin says, blinking, shaking himself. “Don’t you usually report to Oin, at this time?”

“I… yes. I do.”

Even so, Bilbo is slow to rise. He feels as though he shouldn’t be leaving Thorin alone. Maybe he’ll hunt down Dwalin after he leaves, poke him in the ribs and tell him to go back and make up with Thorin before their row becomes stale. Bilbo has learned well enough by now that waiting too long can make some subjects only more difficult to approach a second time. 

Just as he reaches for the door handle, Bilbo pauses, turning back.

“What I was saying earlier, before we were interrupted… I shouldn’t have brought it up. This clearly isn’t the time, not when so much else is happening. It was wrong of me.”

“No,” Thorin says quickly, the word scraping over his throat and leaving his mouth raw. “I’ve been a coward, staying silent. It’s unfair for me to act in such a way then expect you not to question what it means.

Bilbo swallows. “Then what did it mean?”

“I don’t—” Thorin lifts his arm, moving as though he means to push his hair back from his face. He remembers his stitches too late and winces, a small hiss of pain skimming past his lips. Bilbo starts forward only to be halted by Thorin’s upraised hand.

“Don’t, please, allow me to finish.” Thorin breathes deep, the tense line of his shoulders rising. “The truth of the matter is, Bilbo, I don’t always know where I stand with you.”

“I suppose that makes two of us, then,” Bilbo says, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smile that’s too strained for it be taken as anything but false. 

“I don’t believe that’s true,” Thorin says quietly, his eyes flicking downward to watch as the fingers of his injured hand curl into a loose fist. “I would like it if we could be honest with each other.”

The words strike Bilbo like a blow, though he knows Thorin doesn’t mean for them to. There’s no accusation in his tone, no anger hardening the weathered lines on his face.

Bilbo moves forward, just one more step, and he’s close enough now to the foot of the bed that he could reach out and lay his hand over Thorin’s ankle if he wanted to. 

“I think there was something growing between us on our way to Erebor,” he says. “And I… well, I suppose I’d like to see if it’s still there.”

Thorin only stares at him.

Bilbo shrugs, feigning a nonchalance he doesn’t feel, his heart pounding hard against his ribs. “If you feel differently that’s fine. It won’t change things between us, not for me, anyways. But that’s where I stand, if you want to know.”

“Even after all that’s happened,” Thorin breathes. “That’s how you feel?” 

“That’s how I feel. I’m still here, am I not?”

“Yes,” Thorin says, like he’s only just realizing it now. His shoulders ease, as if a great weight has been lifted from them. “Yes, you’re here.”


	8. Chapter 8

When Bilbo thinks of the throne of Erebor he pictures it looking just as it did the day Smaug fled from the mountain. In his mind’s eye he sees a proud relic made decrepit by time, layered in grime and dust and half hidden beneath a molded tapestry. He sees Thorin, adorned in gold and with a crown upon his head, hunched forward in the King’s seat with his fingers curled like claws over the armrests, his face sickly pale but for the bruised patches tucked beneath his eyes.

Once, Bilbo came looking for Thorin to find him standing before the throne with his face tipped upwards, his back turned towards the door. Bilbo halted at the base of the stairs, following Thorin’s gaze to the cracked alcove that once housed the arkenstone, now sitting empty, looking out blindly over Erebor like a gouged socket. 

“Thorin?”

Thorin turned, dark hair shifting over his shoulder and drifting along his cheek, his expression shadowed but for the fevered gleam of his eyes, the quick, white flash of his teeth. 

“Hello, burglar,” he said.

Bilbo swallowed, one foot lifting hesitantly off the ground before settling right back into place, caught between stepping towards the platform and recoiling. Thorin wasn’t meant to greet Bilbo with such dark elation, with a frayed thread of giddiness lurking beneath the deep droll of his voice. His smile shouldn’t have twisted over his lips like a puckered scar, shouldn’t have contrasted so much against the rare, half-secret little grins Bilbo had grown accustomed to.

“B-Balin’s searching for you,” Bilbo said. A tight, clenching fear was welling up in his chest, so tangible that Bilbo felt as though his ribcage might crack open from the force of it. It was a wonder that his hands remained steady at his sides, that only the slightest tremor broke through in his voice.

“Has he news?” Thorin started forward, lifting his arms, his fingers convulsing, clutching at nothing. “Did he find it?”

Bilbo slipped his hands into his pockets, seeking out not the arkenstone but his ring, pinching the round, familiar shape of it between his forefinger and thumb.

_No. No, and he won’t._

“He didn’t say.”

Thorin descended down the short flight of stairs, his fur-lined cloak trailing out behind him and cutting a pathway through the grey layer of dust that still lined the floor. He stopped just before Bilbo, towering over him, close enough for his breath to ghost over his curls. Bilbo flinched when Thorin clasped his shoulder before pushing by, the bite of his metal gauntlets sharp even through thick layers of cloth and wool.

But that day is long past and the throne has since been restored, tended to by skilled hands and reinforced with new stone, polished down to a smooth shine. But the arkenstone’s hollow still remains, sitting high and empty above the King’s head, a pedestal robbed of its prize. Bilbo hates that it’s there, hates that Thorin never commissioned for it to be filled in or removed. Surely it only serves as a reminder of his sickness, only invites questions from his lords and counselors that he’d rather not answer? 

There’s no room in the King’s Hall for a court to be held on the floor, so winding balconies have been carved into the surrounding walls, bracketing the throne from high above and divided into sections by squared off pillars. Bilbo stands with his shoulder to one, pushed up to the tips of his toes and clutching at the bannister. Nira is quiet at his back, standing with her arms crossed and plated elbows sticking out. She had been the one to cut a pathway through the thickening crowd, insistently nudging Bilbo out before her, pushing him towards the front of the pack to where he could see.

Far below, Thorin doesn’t spare a glance towards his gathering his audience. Gone is the golden armour of Thror, replaced by a simple tunic and dark blue mantle that’s been pinned into place with a silver broach at Thorin’s shoulder. His boots are fur-lined and steel-tipped, reminiscent of the ones he wore on the quest, and even his gauntlets are of a simple design, made of beaten leather and laced around his wrists. His clothes are loose fitting and light, designed specifically, Bilbo is sure, to hide the bulk of the bandages still wrapped around Thorin’s chest and arm. They do their job well, as the King looks hearty and hale, sitting tall with colour on his cheeks. Had Bilbo not seen the damage done to Thorin with his own eyes, he would be inclined to believe that news of his injuries were only over-exaggerated rumours.

A dwarf with greying hair and wrinkled hands approaches the throne, his strides long and steady as travels down the narrow walkway. He stops at the base of the stairs and drops to his knees, bowing over and trembling as he pleads for his son’s life. 

Thorin sits silently through it all, his expression stony beneath the weight of his crown. He interrupts Hinrid only once, asking him to stand once the dwarf’s voice begins to break. He complies slowly, clearing his throat and patting down his beard, wiping away the moisture that’s trickled down into his moustache and composing himself before he dares to lift his face and meet the eyes of his King. 

“Your son has committed a grave crime,” Balin says, standing at Thorin’s side with his hands clasped behind his back. There’s no accusation in is voice, no sting, his tone steady with the simple truth of the matter. “Surely you know that His Majesty cannot merely brush such a fallacy aside.”

“I ask only for mercy, my Lord,” Hinrid says. “My lad is still young. He is a kind boy, hardworking and dedicated. I don’t… I can’t explain what he’s done. It’s not in his nature, Your Highness, I swear to you it’s not.”

“He has yet to offer any explanation for his actions,” Thorin says, his deep voice echoing through the room, reverberating from wall to wall. “I can give him nothing while he remains silent.”

“But—but if he were to speak?”

Balin leans towards Thorin, undoubtedly ready with a few soft words of guidance, but Thorin offers him no listening ear, lifting a hand towards Balin in an unspoken command for silence.

“If your son speaks,” Thorin says. “If he has something of value to say, then I will grant you your mercy. Hirin will keep his life.”

A low murmur passes over the court, quick gasps and surprised squeaks and quiet, disapproving sneers. Thorin, perhaps, stiffens in his seat, but his eyes never waver from Hinrid’s own. His voice is louder when he speaks again, and the startled commotion from the crowd dissipates like smoke on the air beneath the driving force of his words. 

“But know this: there is no mountain, no settlement of dwarves —be they of our own ilk or no— that will welcome him once he has been sent away from this Kingdom. His fate will be to wander, homeless and alone, unless you so choose to join him.” 

Hinrid’s face crumples, out of sorrow or relief or even a messy mixture of both. He ducks his head and brings a hand up to his eyes, fine tremors running down the length of his arm and fingers.

“I understand, Your Majesty. Will… would you allow me to see him, Sire? I can convince him to speak. I know I can.”

“A meeting will be arranged under the supervision of my guard.”

Hinrid nods and bows, sinking so low that the tip of his hooked nose nearly brushes against the floor, whispering his thanks over and over again. He turns away on unsteady legs, eyes downcast as his hands twist themselves into knots at his front. Thorin watches him go, motioning for the court to continue on only once the doors have been pulled shut behind him with a loud, resonating thud.

 

 

Bilbo remains long enough to watch as a small group of dwarves approach Thorin with a property dispute, bickering about their businesses and shops and old, outdated contracts. The sound of their feud seems to follow Bilbo as he slowly pushes his way back through the crowd, muttering quiet apologies beneath his breath for every booted foot he steps on and every hard stomach he accidently jabs with his elbow. 

_Petty_ is the word that sticks out in Bilbo’s mind, that stubbornly remains there like a barbed hook no matter how hard he tries to shake it free. The claims being made are legitimate ones, Bilbo is sure, but the matter only seems frivolous to him when compared to what Hinrid faces to lose. 

Nira follows Bilbo to the archives without comment, shadowing his steps all the way to Bilbo’s small workspace. She stands outside the barrier of his thin screens, arms crossed in her usual stance as she watches the entrance, glaring at any dwarf that looks at her for too long. Bilbo almost wants to apologize for treating her to such a boring afternoon as he pours over old, moldy order forms, growing increasingly aware of how dull his regular routine must seem to a trained soldier. 

But it’s nice to be back here all the same, to be able to sit and work for a proper length of time without any interruptions. Bilbo had thought of the archives as being a sort of reprieve for him only a few short weeks ago, and they seem that way again now, a harmless, welcome distraction drowning out the anxious buzzing of his thoughts. 

Gimli is late in starting his shift, arriving with a tall stack of books that he dumps ungraciously atop of Bilbo’s desk.

“Not necessary,” Bilbo says without looking up.

“What? You asked for these!”

“I was referring to how you set them down.”

From beyond the screens, Nira makes a coughing sound that suspiciously resembles laughter. Gimli’s hackles rise in response, and he mutters something about the fussy nature of hobbits beneath his breath before he clears his throat and says, “Let’s take a break.”

“You only just got here.” 

“But I brought you tea.”

Bilbo looks up, and true to his word Gimli has a steaming clay cup in hand, ready to be waved beneath Bilbo’s twitching nose.

“How did you even carry that here?” Bilbo asks, and then, thinking of the Company’s display with the dishes in Bag End, goes on to add: “Actually, never mind.”

So Bilbo finds himself standing out on a cold balcony with Gimli by his side, sipping at his tea and breathing out misty little puffs of air above the lip of his cup. It’s the very same place Balin led him to on his first day working at the archives, and spurred on by their privacy, with only Nira close enough to overhear, Bilbo turns to Gimli and asks, “Were you there, this morning?” 

“In the King’s Hall? Who wasn’t?”

“Plenty, I’m sure. What did you think?”

“Of…?”

“Thorin’s decision.”

Gimli glances at him, a pipe now between his teeth, the bowl glowing faintly as he inhales. “Seemed fair enough to me.”

“You don’t think he was too… er, lenient?”

“Not really. Why, do you?”

“No, no, not at all. I just heard that some dwarves might.”

Gimli shrugs. “Passed by a few fellows talking about it on my way up here. They were saying some shite about Thorin needing to grow a spine.”

“Of all the things Thorin needs, that is certainly not one of them.” Bilbo looks down at the glossy surface of his tea, shaking his head. “I don’t understand it.”

“What?”

“How they can still be so against him, how they can act as though this isn’t something he’s earned. Without Thorin, Smaug would still be claiming this mountain as his own.”

“Da thinks some dwarves have lost faith in Thror’s line, that they reckon it might be better to give someone else a try.”

Bilbo turns to Gimli, startled, but Gimli just keeps puffing at his pipe, as casual as he’d be had he just made some passing comment about the weather.

“Gloin told you that?”

“Nah. Heard him talking to Mum about it.”

Bilbo breathes out a long stream of air, suddenly itching for a pipe of his own.

“Everyone was speaking so well of him after what happened in the forges.”

Gimli snorts. “Will take more than that to win over some of Dain’s lot. Dwarves are stubborn, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Bilbo finishes his tea, passing off the empty cup to Gimli before padding back inside. His intends to continue on working for another hour at least, but finds his concentration has snapped. A quiet fury has begun to boil within him, demanding Bilbo’s attention and refusing to cool, heating his blood until his hands shake and he has to set aside his scrolls in fear of damaging them. Without his consent his mind begins flitting through still images of Thorin, shows him standing apart from the Company with his eyes fixed on Erebor’s hazy silhouette on the horizon before drawing forward a fresher memory: Thorin hunched over in his sickbed, staring down at his limp hand as his fingers twitch feebly atop his lap.

Bilbo takes a longer route than usual back to his rooms, hoping that he may be able to walk faster than his temper can keep up. His quarters are quiet and warm when he returns to them, the fire already lit and stoked by some servant that Bilbo has yet to succeed at catching sight of. He waits outside the door while Nira searches his room, and once alone forgoes all civility and sits down on the floor in front of the hearth, stretching out his legs and leaning back onto his hands, gazing up at the faraway ceiling and grinding his teeth all the while. 

Kili arrives earlier than Bilbo expects him to, knocking at the door just once and letting himself inside without being called.

“That meeting took so _long,_ ” he whines, wrinkling his nose. He doesn’t seem surprised to find Bilbo sprawled out on the floor and sits down next to him with a petulant little huff, folding his legs beneath himself. 

“You shouldn’t complain,” Bilbo says, though he does so with a slight smile, Kili’s peevish state somehow working to ease the knot of Bilbo’s own frustrations. “Thorin’s still there, I’m sure?”

“He had to go talk to some other lord about mining laws. Took Fili along with him.” Kili blows his bangs away from his face only for them to fall right back over his eyes. “Can you believe I actually used to be jealous that he got to be the heir instead of me?”

“You’re still an heir, Kili.”

“Second in line doesn’t really count.”

“I’m not sure your uncle or mother would agree with that.”

Kili scoffs and waves Bilbo off playfully.

“What changed?” Bilbo asks.

“Ah?”

“To make you not jealous.”

“Oh. I just realized how much work it would be,” Kili says with a shrug, half a smile dimpling his cheek. Bilbo eyes him but decides to let the subject drop, though he suspects there’s more to the matter than Kili’s letting on.

Bilbo ushers Kili up off the floor and sits him down at his work desk, stretching his arms over his head and yawing before pulling up a spare chair for himself. He starts running Kili through the basic structure of Sindarin, pulling out the study guide he’s already prepared that contrasts the Westron alphabet against elvish runes side-by-side.

“This isn’t going to be easy to learn, is it?” Kili asks, smoothing down one of his eyebrows with the heel of his hand.

“No,” Bilbo says bluntly. “But the more you work at it the simpler it will seem.”

Bilbo decides to start Kili off slow. He writes out his own name in Sindarin and has Kili translate it, nudging at his arm and reminding him to shift the placement of his vowels. Afterwards, he scribbles down _Prince Kili_ in Westron and has him repeat the process in reverse. 

Kili seems rather pleased with himself by the time he finishes, his smile only growing when Bilbo checks over his work and gives him a nod. Bilbo invites him to go ahead and choose the next name, and isn’t surprised in the least when Kili immediately begins to piece together how to spell out ‘Tauriel’ in elvish.

Bilbo clears his throat, looking back and forth between Kili’s flicking quill and his furrowed brow. “You do know you’ll have to tell Thorin eventually?” 

Kili pauses, not quite glaring at Bilbo when he lifts his head but looking rather unimpressed all the same. “Yes Bilbo, thank you.”

Bilbo stares right back, fingers twitching with the urge to grab hold of one of Kili’s braids and give it a sharp tug as he’s seen Dis do from time to time when the boy gets a little too lippy at the breakfast table. “And have you put any thought into how you should go about it?”

“I’ll tell Mum first,” Kili says, sitting up, nodding along in agreement with himself. “She’ll understand. I know she will.”

“And what then? You’ll let _her_ tell Thorin?”

“Maybe.” Kili scratches at his chin. “That’s a good idea, actually. Thorin won’t yell at her.”

“Kili.”

“What? It’s true.”

Bilbo rubs at his temple. “And you’ll be speaking to your mother... soon?”

“Yes, all right? Yes! I just wanted to wait until we hear back from the elves about the trade negotiations first.”

Bilbo frowns, his eyes narrowing as he peers at Kili with open suspicion. He’s about to ask what exactly Kili and Tauriel have been planning through their letters, when a heavy knock at the door causes him to jump up in his seat.

“Were you expecting someone?” Kili asks.

Bilbo shakes his head, stretching his legs down towards the floor. “Just you.”

The knock comes again. Louder, now. More insistent. 

Bilbo flips over his books and motions for Kili to cover up his work with some scrap paper, touching a finger to his lips before pushing out his chair. He’s careful not to open the door too far, thought nearly forgets himself and swings it straight back on its hinges once he sees who’s there on the other side.

Thorin inclines his head in greeting. “Master Baggins.”

It’s been two days since they last spoke in private, since Bilbo confronted Thorin in his sickroom and dragged up the long buried question of what precisely was going on between them. And while Bilbo had dreaded the possibility of rejection while still hoping for a mutual response, he hardly expected to receive shades of both. 

“You’re here,” Thorin had said, a cautious sort of tenderness creeping into his tone, and Bilbo was nearly overcome with the desire to climb onto the bed and lie down beside him. He wanted to tuck up his knees and curl in close, ghost his lips against the shell of Thorin’s ear and describe to him the sound of his own rich voice filling up Bag End in the dead of night. He wanted to tell Thorin how warm his embrace had been on top the Carrock, of the fierce light that burned in his eyes when he stood tall before the people of Laketown and won their favour. He wanted Thorin to know that he had never looked so handsome, or young, or whole than he did when he held up his father’s key before Erebor’s hidden door and laughed.

Bilbo felt that if he put it into words, if he could tell the story just right, he could make Thorin understand that as much as he missed his home, his books and armchair and lovely little garden, if given the choice in that moment between finding himself whisked away back to the Shire or remaining where he was by Thorin’s side—well. 

It would hardly be a choice at all.

“I can’t—” Thorin’s gaze dropped from Bilbo’s face to the wrinkled spread of his bed sheets, flicking back up again only after he had steeled his shoulders and hardened his jaw. “There are things I must consider. Will you give me time?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, the answer slipping away from him before he even had the chance to properly consider the question. It wasn’t until after he’d spoken that Bilbo even thought to ask Thorin what it was he couldn’t do.

“I don’t expect you to wait,” Thorin quickly went on to say, confusing Bilbo all the more. “Not if you don’t—”

“I’m not waiting,” Bilbo told him. It felt important, somehow, to make that clear. “Nor have I been. I’m just… interested. Still. And I highly doubt that will change.”

A muffled thump from somewhere behind Bilbo jolts him from thoughts. His fingers twitch against the doorframe as he glances over his shoulder, catching just a glimpse of Kili’s booted foot disappearing behind the shelter of the bed.

“Stack of books falling over,” Bilbo says, turning back to Thorin, flapping his hand through the air and rushing on when Thorin’s brow creases in response. “What are you doing here?

Thorin’s frown deepens, though he looks more troubled than angry, and Bilbo very much wants to kick himself.

“That is— not that you aren’t welcome, or that I’m not pleased to see you, I only thought—” 

“I was wondering,” Thorin interrupts, the corner of his lips quirking with the wary promise of a smile. “If you would accompany me for a walk?”

“At this hour?”

“What’s wrong with the hour?”

“Well it’s late, isn’t it?” Again Bilbo cranes his neck around, remembering too late that he has no window in his room to look out of, no way to gauge the brightness of the sky.

“You’re still awake,” Thorin says. “And not yet dressed for bed.”

“Fair point, I suppose. All right, all right, just let me…”

Bilbo ducks back inside, using his foot as a stop to keep the door in place. He reaches for the coatrack and yanks down a thick, oversized tunic he’s taken to wearing about in the morning or late at night when the mountain’s at its coldest. Bilbo suspects it was given to him by accident, mixed in among the rest of his borrowed clothes, but finds it so comfortably worn with it’s torn lining and thin elbows that he’s never bothered in trying to correct the mistake.

He turns around to find Thorin watching him, fine lines prominent around his brightly amused eyes.

“What?” Bilbo asks, pushing his arms through the sleeves of his makeshift jacket, shrugging into the wide shoulders. The cuffs fall over his fingers, and he fiddles with them a moment, trying to roll them back to his wrists before giving up.

“I need to commission for more clothing to be made in your size, I think.” Thorin extends his hand, as if planning pluck at Bilbo’s splayed collar and tug it up closer to his jaw, but his arm only hovers awkwardly in the air for a long moment before falling away, leaving Bilbo untouched and wanting.

“Come,” Thorin says, turning on his heel. Bilbo sighs and shuts the door behind him, trusting that Kili will be perfectly capable in seeing himself out.

“Where are we going?” Bilbo asks, trotting forward to catch up with Thorin’s longer strides. They pass a set of guards that Bilbo doesn’t recognize —probably Thorin’s own or even Nira’s replacements for the night— and Thorin motions for them to stay put as they walk by.

“The tombs,” Thorin says once they’re out of earshot.

“The… really?”

“I haven’t been to my mother’s since before the dragon came.”

“Oh.”

Thorin peers down at Bilbo, eyebrows lifting, and Bilbo ducks his head.

He says, “And you’re sure I won’t be intruding?” 

“I’ve asked you to come.” 

“In the middle of night, when no one will see us.”

Thorin stops walking, halting so abruptly that Bilbo continues on for a few more paces before he realizes.

“Is that what you think?” Thorin asks. “That I seek to hide you away?”

“No! No, that’s not quite what I meant.” 

A muscle in Thorin’s jaw jumps, and then tightens.

“Not quite,” he repeats. “But partly?” 

Bilbo swallows, his toes curling against the cold floor. For all of Thorin’s height and strength he very rarely makes Bilbo feel small, but he’s accomplishing it now, not by looming or throwing out some cold, scathing comment, but through the bare, unguarded look of disappointment on his face.

When Bilbo speaks again, his voice comes out as a croak. “Your tombs are… well, they’re private, aren’t they?”

After the battle, once the bodies of the fallen had been gathered and identified, a massive burial ceremony took place that lasted the length of a day. Bilbo never thought to attend, still busy in caring for the wounded and feeling it wouldn’t be his place. All the dwarves he knew had the survived the battle almost entirely intact, after all. But Balin still took him aside, still delicately explained that dwarven burial grounds were sacred places that few outside their own race had ever been given the privilege to see, making it clear without having to actually say it that Bilbo’s presence there would not be met with welcome. 

“I want you to accompany me,” Thorin says, ignoring Bilbo’s question. “If you do not wish to, then—”

“No! That’s not—” Bilbo sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “There are dwarves in the mountain that would disapprove of this, Thorin. I know that you know that.”

“You are my guest. I have every right to invite you.” Thorin closes the gap between them with one step and moves past Bilbo with another, pausing to pull a torch down from its hook on the wall. “Do not concern yourself with my reputation, Master Baggins. I assure you this will make it no worse than what it already is.”

“I don’t see why I would find that reassuring at all,” Bilbo grumbles, loud enough for Thorin to hear, but not so much so that he can’t reasonably pretend not to.

They don’t speak again for some time. Bilbo half expects for Thorin to dismiss him, to turn away and tell him to forget the whole thing, but he never does, marching on silently with his gaze fixed ahead. Bilbo can’t help but keep an eye on the torch as they go. Thorin holds it steady in his uninjured hand, but surely the weight must be a strain on the still tender stitches running up his arm. 

“I can take that, if you’d like,” Bilbo says once they come to a wide staircase, delving so far down into the mountain that Bilbo cannot see the end of it, vastly lit though it is. “And do we even need it, for that matter?”

“We will,” Thorin says, gesturing for Bilbo to step out ahead of him.

Bilbo’s nose twitches irritably, but he decides not to push the issue just yet. 

“We used to play down here as children,” Thorin tells him after they begin to descend. 

Bilbo nearly stumbles, sure that he’s misheard. “Here? Of all places?”

“We would pinch off half the lamps and chase each other in the dark.” Thorin shakes his head, and Bilbo can’t decide if he’s smiling fondly at the memory or twisting his lips at the audacity of it. 

“You and Dwalin? I can picture that, actually.”

“Dwalin and my brother. Dis too, sometimes, whenever she followed us down.”

Bilbo shoulders hitch upwards, betraying his surprise. Thorin rarely speaks of Frerin and has, to Bilbo’s fine memory, certainty never mentioned him in such an offhanded manner before.

“It’s a wonder you were never caught,” Bilbo says.

“We nearly were, once or twice. It’s fortunate, that my siblings were always talented at talking their way out of trouble.”

“And you?”

“I would have thought that’d be obvious, Master Hobbit.” Thorin looks down at Bilbo, tilting his head. “My skills are better honed to finding it.”

Bilbo laughs. “Unwittingly, it’s fair to say.”

“I fear not all of us have your good luck.”

“You don’t believe in luck.”

“Sometimes,” Thorin admits, “I wonder.”

The stone beneath their feet begins to change, the customary green marble of Erebor darkening to wine-red tiles that have been intersected with shining cuts of obsidian. This is what Bilbo is looking at when the staircase ends, opening up to an expansive cavern. Thorin clears his throat and Bilbo lifts his head, any murky thoughts he had entertained of finding something akin to a dark, chilly graveyard instantly dashed away by the sight before him.

Gold lanterns hang down from the ceiling on the ends of long, glittering chains, casting hazy silhouettes on the cream-coloured walls and over the sea of caskets laid out beneath them. Dwarves, it seems, do not lay their dead to rest in the ground as hobbits do. Instead, their coffins are sealed tight and left bare to the open air, arranged into a busy pattern that stretches out across the entirety of the floor. Some are little more than simple cuts of stone, plain grey boxes that look rough-hewn and coarse to the touch, but others have been masterfully carved, smoothed over and engraved with dwarven runes or sculpted to depict lifelike images of those lying inside.

“How far on does it go?” Bilbo asks, flinching at the sound of his own voice echoing through the chamber. It sounds too loud and intrusive for such a hallowed place.

“Deeper, rather than farther,” Thorin says. “But our destination is near.”

Thorin leads Bilbo down the pathway that cuts through the center of the room, stopping once they reach the opposite wall. There he lays his hand flat against the stone, bowing his head as he whispers something low and sharp-edged beneath his breath. Threadbare seams crack through the marble beneath his fingers, a thin shower of dust and pebbles falling over Thorin’s boots and coating the hair on the backs of Bilbo’s feet. 

“Are there many hidden doors in Erebor, then?” Bilbo asks, touching one of the fallen rocks with the tip of his toe and gently nudging it aside.

“More than I was ever told of,” Thorin says, regret darkening his voice as he goes on to add, “More than I will ever remember the words for.”

Thorin draws his hand back and a section of the wall swings inwards and away, seemingly of its own accord. Bilbo can see nothing but darkness beyond and follows closely behind as Thorin walks along the perimeter of the alcove, making use of his torch and lighting each lamp he manages to find by memory or touch. The room is revealed to be smaller than Bilbo would have expected, rounded off at the top and crafted from a stark, bone-white marble. The tombs are not on the floor but slotted into notches along the wall, arranged into rows that stretch up towards the ceiling. Each one is marked with a gilded plaque, and while some are naked stone others are draped in an old, faded tapestries that look ready to crumble at the slightest touch. 

“These are empty,” Thorin says, standing beside Bilbo and gesturing to a line of uncovered coffins. “They were meant for my grandfather and father. Frerin.”

All at once, Bilbo’s throat feels tight, his tongue scratchy and dry. “Is one of them to be yours as well?”

Thorin hums, nodding at casket sitting at the top of the next row over before pointing to another. “And Dis’. Perhaps. The arrangement may need to be changed.”

“To make room for Fili and Kili?”

“And her husband.” Thorin tilts up his chin, eyes fogged with memories past. “He should be honoured here.”

Bilbo looks at Thorin and can’t remember there ever being a funeral held in the Shire where no body had been laid to rest beneath the grave-marker, that was preformed for the comfort of the ceremony alone. It strikes him then that in their exile the dwarves of Erebor have been robbed even of their dead, forced to burn them on pyres or leave them to rot on the road beneath hastily piled rocks.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo says, blurting out the words too quickly to speak them with the proper reverence they deserve. Thorin turns to him, his expression shadowed.

“So am I.”

The last coffin Thorin shows him is different from the others, incrusted with jewels and paneled with a shimmering white stone that appears to shift in colour as the light glances across it.

“Moonstones,” Thorin tells him when he catches Bilbo staring. “Mother was fond of them.”

“What was she like?” 

It’s a question Bilbo’s been holding on to, that he wants to use again in conversations concerning Thror or Thrain or Frerin. But it seems safer, now, to inquire about the Queen of Erebor when Thorin stands at ease at his side, reaching out to touch his gloved knuckles to the embossed plate that holds his mother’s name.

“Bold,” Thorin says after a moment. “Funny.”

Bilbo looks up, blinking, and Thorin shrugs.

“She was,” he insists. “She always made my father laugh.”

Thorin’s torch is guttering by the time they leave. The shadows before their feet lengthen and Bilbo’s toes catch against the first step when they begin their climb back up to the halls of Erebor. Thorin catches him by the arm, his torch tipping sideways for just a moment before he swings it back around, his grip shifting down towards Bilbo’s wrist. 

“And here I thought you were meant to have a light step, burglar,” Thorin says. 

“Lighter than _you_ , I’m sure,” Bilbo sniffs.

Thorin makes a quietly amused sound. His hold begins to slip, and Bilbo grips at his hand without thinking, silently cursing himself when Thorin’s pleased hum chokes off, swallowed up by a note of alarm or pain.

“Sorry!” Bilbo says, pulling away, the tips of his ears burning. “Sorry, I wasn’t—”

Thorin catches the edge of Bilbo’s long sleeve before he can retreat too far.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Just—lighter?”

Thorin isn’t looking at him, his body turned towards the slope of the stairwell, the fall of his hair hiding his face from view. Tentatively, Bilbo slips his fingers against the palm of Thorin’s glove, feeling the faint outline of his bandages through the leather.

They leave the tombs this way, with Thorin leading and Bilbo following behind, their fingers loosely knitted together between them. 

“Does it still hurt?” Bilbo asks.

“It’s stiff.”

Thorin doesn’t release his hand when they breach the upper levels, when he stops to deposit his now dead torch or when they enter the passageway that leads back to Bilbo’s chambers.

 _He’ll let go if we meet someone,_ Bilbo tells himself. _Once we come across the guards…_

But the guards must be on patrol, for they’re nowhere to be seen and Bilbo is left feeling both relieved and sullen that his theory is to go untested. Maybe Thorin wouldn’t have let go. Maybe he would have only gripped him tighter.

“Dis has not forgotten about your new room,” Thorin tells him as they stop at Bilbo’s door, unprompted and speaking very quickly. If Bilbo didn’t know better, he would accuse Thorin of being nervous. “There simply hasn’t been time—”

“Of course,” Bilbo says. He’s smiling widely all of a sudden, foolishly, and if asked would not be able to say why. “I know, Thorin. There’s really no rush. I’m fine where I am.”

Thorin looks unconvinced, looks so needlessly concerned that Bilbo has to bite down on his tongue to keep from laughing.

“Thank you for inviting me on your walk,” Bilbo says.

“I feared you would find it morbid.” 

“Oh, no. It wasn’t. Not at all.”

Thorin nods, though he seems distracted and only half-listening. His gazed is fixed on Bilbo’s own until it’s not, until his eyes flicker, once, scanning Bilbo’s face before dipping downwards, focusing instead on his collarbone or bare chin or—

Oh.

A warm knot of anticipation begins to tighten low in Bilbo’s belly, and on impulse he licks his lips, watching as Thorin’s pupils dilate in response. 

“You’re staring,” Bilbo says.

Thorin stiffens, his fingers tightening over Bilbo’s hand before easing back, though never fully letting go. 

“I asked you for time.” Thorin’s voice is strained, the words sounding distant and faraway, as if he’s speaking to himself rather than Bilbo. 

“You have it,” Bilbo says. “As much as you need, truly. But if—if you’ve changed your mind, I can’t say I would hold it against you.”

Thorin breathes out a long sigh, and just as it had been in his sickroom two days before, the tension that seems to lock his body into place falls away in a sudden rush. He shakes his head, lashes drifting darkly against his cheeks. He’s not smiling, but looks as though he may be about to.

The kiss they share is soft, tentative, almost nothing more than a chaste brush of lips on lips. It’s Bilbo who tilts his head to deepen it, who twists his fingers into the front of Thorin’s shirt and makes a low, pleased sound deep in this throat when Thorin allows himself to be dragged in closer, slipping one hand down to palm the small of Bilbo’s back as he brings the other up to sift through his curls.

It’s not enough. Like a starved beggar wolfing down scraps, Bilbo finds his hunger only grows after being fed, demanding a feast instead of crumbs. He wants Thorin to dig his nails into his waist, wants to feel the rough drag of his beard against his belly and thighs, to lie Thorin down and spread himself over him and give him anything he wants until he finally, _finally_ lets go, moaning as he melts like hot wax beneath Bilbo’s touch.

Bilbo mutters Thorin’s name, turning his face away, and Thorin draws back, shaking off the glazed look that’s settled over his eyes, his lips damp and red.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says again. “What do you want?”

“I…”

The fingers in Bilbo’s hair still, half-tangled, and Bilbo is ready to move away, thinking the end of that sentence is bound to be some muddled variation of ‘I don’t know’, but the arm around his waist tightens and Thorin bows forward, his brow coming to rest against the top of Bilbo’s head.

“I want you to invite me in.”

“Oh.” Bilbo lifts his chin, the upturned curve of his nose brushing along the prickling edge of Thorin’s beard. “That’s good. I want that, too.”

Bilbo steps back, a bright heat rising to his cheeks as he leads Thorin into his chambers. The door closes behind them with a soft click, and Bilbo only has a moment to scan the room to make sure that Kili is indeed gone before Thorin is reaching for him again, wanting him back.

Bilbo goes willingly, pushing up to the tips of his toes and winding his arms around Thorin’s neck. Thorin leans in, his hair falling forward in a messy wave as a braid swings out to tap against Bilbo’s collarbone. Blood pounds in Bilbo’s ears, runs hot and fast through his veins, and he waits for Thorin’s eyes to flutter shut, for damp breath to ghost across his lips before veering away, denying Thorin his kiss to instead dip down to touch his teeth to the thrumming pulse point at Thorin’s throat.

The noise Thorin makes is loud and lovely and helplessly torn from him. His hips twitch, rolling forward, and he tilts his head back without hesitation, offering himself up for more that Bilbo is ready to give, sucking a wet, red kiss against the pale skin caught between his teeth. There’s a soft _pat_ against the floor behind Bilbo as Thorin peels off his gloves and lets them fall, and then he’s pushing Bilbo’s heavy tunic down from his shoulders, clawing at the thinner shirt he finds resting beneath and slipping his hands under the hem, gripping at the rounded curve of Bilbo’s waist.

Bilbo hums out his encouragement, mouthing along the rough line of Thorin’s jaw. He curls his fingers against the back of Thorin’s neck before drawing them around, fiddling with the clasp that keeps his mantle in place. Before he succeeds in unlatching it Thorin tightens his hold, stepping backwards and dragging Bilbo along with him until they come to a stop at the end of the bed.

“Don’t—” Bilbo starts, but Thorin is already falling, hugging Bilbo close so he lands pinned against his broad chest.

“Careful!” Bilbo squeaks, lips still prickling from the drag of Thorin’s beard. “You’re hurt—”

“—Fine, I’m _fine_ ,” Thorin says, and he’s kissing Bilbo again, tongue swiping along the seal of his lips and dipping inside when Bilbo deigns to part them. It’s only after they break away from each other that Bilbo notices Thorin’s crown has come off, has rolled back to settle against the pillows and left Thorin’s hair in wild disarray across the bedspread. It’s cool and soft to the touch when Bilbo runs his fingers through it, pushing a few stray strands away from where they’ve caught against Thorin’s face.

They remain like that for some time, Thorin with his legs hanging off the mattress at the knees and Bilbo sprawled out on top of him, elbows set on either side of his head. Bilbo rocks his hips, grinding down, and smiles when Thorin moans for him again.

Thorin lifts his legs up, bracketing Bilbo with his knees and tightening them against his sides before rolling them over, pinning Bilbo to the bed. 

“Oh, is that how it’s going to be, then?” Bilbo says, laughter in his voice. “Perhaps I should tie you down.”

He means it only as a joke, but Thorin goes still above him, eyes widening as his breaths turn shallow in his chest, hot colour blooming over his cheeks.

“Oh,” Bilbo says. His mouth runs dry as the image unfolds behind his eyes, detailed enough to make him shudder. Thorin spread out on his back with his arms roped above his head, his belly fluttering as Bilbo presses his palms flush to his chest, pinching his nipples red between his fingers and scratching his nails down over sensitive skin. He imagines Thorin’s heels digging into the sheets, striving for purchase as he arches his back and cants his hips upwards, craving Bilbo’s touch, groaning when Bilbo coos and tells him to wait, wait, just a little longer, tracing the sharp jut of his hipbones with his thumbs.

“You— would you like that?”

Thorin’s throat burns red. His mouth closes with a soft click and he turns his face away.

“Thorin?”

“I should—” Thorin moves away, hitching his rumpled tunic back into place with a jerk of his shoulders and almost stumbling off the bed in his hurry to leave.

A tremor runs down Bilbo’s spine as he pushes himself up onto his elbows, shivering though the fire is still lit and crackling in its hearth. He opens his mouth to protest, to ask Thorin what’s wrong or tell him outright to stop being ridiculous and _talk_ to him, but Thorin is already retreating, his back to Bilbo as picks up his gloves and strides towards the door, muttering something that might be an apology over his shoulder before he reaches for the handle and is gone.

Bilbo stares, wide-eyed and gaping, sprawled out and alone on his large, feather-downed mattress. It takes a long moment for him to move, standing up to adjust his now uncomfortably tight trousers and tease his fingers through his mussed hair. He looks between the door and the bed, noticing that Thorin’s crown has been left behind, tipped onto its side and still nestled against a plush pillow. Bilbo picks it up, tracing its sharp edges with his fingers, eyes drifting over the detailed metalwork, the two raven crests that come around and meet at the center.

It feels very heavy in his hand.

 

 

It takes Bilbo over an hour to calm down enough to even properly consider what’s happened. He paces the length of his room, stomping off to the water closet with the intent to fill the tub for a soak only to change his mind at the last moment. He goes to his desk and takes as much time as he possibly can sorting through Kili’s work, slotting the sheets into a thick volume of dwarven poetry and hiding it away in one of his drawers.

Finally, Bilbo gathers up the wolf-skin pelt from his bed, wraps it around his shoulders like a cloak and settles down into an armchair by the fire, staring out into the flames until his eyes begin to glaze over, his mind whirling about in circles.

It makes no sense to him. One moment he had Thorin, had the smooth rumble of his voice in his ears and the taste of him on his lips and the hard press of his body beneath his hands, and in the next the King of Erebor was all but fleeing from him. If Bilbo thought he had somehow offended Thorin he might have understood better, but Thorin hadn’t seemed angered by Bilbo’s words. He had looked surprised, had looked, for a moment, as if a new flame had been breathed to life behind his eyes before then being smothered down by denial or pride or even—

The door flings open, clacking back against the wall, and Bilbo yelps, jumping to his feet and grasping blindly for the thick book he left balancing on the armrest the night before. He already has it over his head, ready to fling it towards the intruder before he blinks and sees who it is that’s invited themselves in.

“Oh for— do you _ever_ knock?” Bilbo asks waspishly, setting his poor excuse for a weapon aside.

Dwalin doesn’t smile. “Where is he?”

Bilbo crosses his arms, refusing to shrink away when Dwalin’s stare darkens in response. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“Not funny,” Dwalin snaps, stepping fully into Bilbo’s room. His hands are clenched into tight fists at his side, his arms locked, and Bilbo has seen Dwalin caught in a fit of battle-fueled rage, has seen him angry and frightened and terrible but never, _never_ this close to outright panic. 

Dwalin’s eyes fall on the crown sitting innocently on Bilbo’s nightstand. He marches over, hooking a finger around rim and doubling back towards the fire, lifting the ornament up to dangle it in front of Bilbo’s narrowing eyes.

“You still don’t know?”

Bilbo huffs, reaching up to smack Dwalin’s hand aside. Dwalin lowers his arm obligingly —Bilbo doubts he could succeed in besting even Dwalin’s pinky finger in strength if the dwarf didn’t give up the win—but the dark unrest that’s settled over his face doesn’t lift.

“Thorin’s not here. He was, but—hey!”

Dwalin’s already out the door, fingers gripped tight around the crown, and Bilbo rushing after him. 

“Where’d he go?” Dwalin asks once Bilbo catches up. His strides are long and hurried, and Bilbo is forced to jog in order to match their pace.

“I don’t know. He was upset, I think. What’s happening?”

“Never mind that. You should go back to your room.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard.”

Bilbo smacks Dwalin’s arm for the second time in as many minutes, the soft flesh of his hand stinging against thick leather. Dwalin doesn’t so much as look down at him, so Bilbo darts forward, spinning round to stand in front of Dwalin, planting his feet solidly against the ground and blocking off his path. 

“Don’t ignore me! What’s going on?”

Dwaln’s lips press into a thin line, his heavy brows lowering above his eyes. Bilbo squares his shoulders, crosses his arms and hardens his spine, even dares to tap his foot against the ground in a mocking show of impatience. Dwalin once said Bilbo was stubborn enough to be a dwarf. Far be it for Bilbo to prove him wrong.

“It’s the boy,” Dwalin says, the words worming their way out from between gritted teeth. “That bloody little assassin.”

“Hirin? What about him?”

“He’s dead. And the King, apparently, is missing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An _update_? I’m so sorry to have kept you all waiting for so long. Life got a little busy there for awhile and it really took a toll on my writing motivation. I was seriously blown away by the feedback I received from the previous chapter, and just want to extend a heartfelt thank you to anyone reading this. I really can't express what your continued support means to me. I never imagined that so many would take an interest in this fic, and I'm incredibly humbled by your kind and encouraging comments!
> 
> The tombs in this chapter were vaguely inspired by the [Pantheon of the Kings at the El Escorial](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/El_Escorial) in Spain. If you ever have the chance to visit I highly recommend that you do --it's really very beautiful. 
> 
> And just one last little side note: in response to a meme I rewrote a small section of chapter 7 from Thorin's POV. It can be found [here](http://lightshesaid.tumblr.com/post/106577356152/pov-thorin-in-one-of-the-more-intimate-moments) at my tumblr.


	9. Chapter 9

Once, there was not a moment of the day in which the kingdom of Erebor slept. Long after the sun had vanished from the sky dwarven hammers drummed on in the deep, the steady rhythm of metal against stone echoing up from the depths of the mountain, resonating through mines and caverns, thick layers of granite and marble and steel. In the evenings it was not uncommon for Thorin to lie down for bed with his ears ringing, almost believing he could feel his very bones vibrating in time with each blow.

But now the night is silent and empty, filled with nothing but the sound of his own rasping breath, the hurried tread of his footsteps. 

_Fool_ , he calls himself. _Coward._

Thorin doesn’t go back to his chambers, can't stand the thought of returning to his vacant rooms while his blood still runs hot, the memory of Bilbo’s touch prickling against his skin. He wanders into the depths of the mountain, his feet guiding him aimlessly through half-remembered passageways, down vast corridors and darkening halls. The gleam of a bronze-plated torch catches at the corner of his vision as he walks quickly by, leaving a hazy yellow afterimage flashing behind his eyes, near blinding in its brightness.

Thorin’s pace falters. He blinks and gathers his bearings, studying the blocky pattern crawling up the thick pillar at his side, and it dawns on him that if he were to somehow travel straight down from where he stands he would find himself in the very heart of the treasury. 

The thought sticks, spreading across the surface of his mind, sinking into the cracks when he tries to shake it loose. Thorin could go there now if he wished. The bankers have long retired for the day and no one’s awake to see him, to judge or question the purpose of his visit or ponder over the influence of sickness. Their suspicion would be unwarranted besides, as in truth Thorin seeks only the comfort of—of…

(What?)

An icy tremor runs down his spine, spreading through Thorin’s limbs and bleeding into his lungs like inhaled water, invasive and choking.

Thorin turns around.

There’s an abandoned keep built up from the edge of the mountain, constructed from granite quarried from the surrounding landscape many long years ago. Thorin investigated the area himself shortly after his coronation, walked its perimeter and examined the extent of the damages before deeming it unsafe. 

It’s a place he holds a peculiar fondness for, that he thought of often during his exile, picturing the spyglasses that had been mounted by the slotted windows and the dour-faced guards that would march along the ramparts. Clever ravens once roosted in the cracks between the stones, cawing out half-formed words at the soldiers when they passed, cackling madly if they jumped. 

Thorin holds a clear memory of his grandfather bringing him there as a child, of being lifted up and placed on Thror’s strong shoulders once his small legs grew tired from the climb. Thror told him that he’d always been fond of the view from the keep’s outlook, tilting his head back and winking at Thorin like the confession was some kind of shared joke, and Thorin had frowned, clutching at his grandfather’s collar, not comprehending as to how that could be. The keep looks out not over Mirkwood or Dale but the flat plains resting on the opposite side of the mountain where there is very little to see but for the long curve of the horizon. It was not until later that Thorin came to understand, when he traveled there alone one summer afternoon and looked down to see how tall the wild grass had grown below, so vividly green against the sky it was nearly impossible to look at. 

Thorin has never been to the sea, has little interest in ever standing at the sandy edge of one, but sometimes finds himself thinking that it could not look much different from that open field swaying in the wind. 

He breaches the top of the stairwell, carefully sidestepping a rickety tile underfoot, and nearly wishes his memory did not serve him so well as he surveys what’s there to greet him. 

A large section of the outer wall and roof are gone, perhaps knocked loose by the powerful gust of Smaug’s wings or simply unable to withstand the harsh winters year after year without maintenance. It’s at that gap Thorin comes to stand, trailing his gloved hand along the crumbling edges of the bricks, nudging pebbles free and flicking them over the edge of the mountain. He had hoped to begin repairs here months ago, but whenever he turned to the task another matter of greater urgency seemed to arise, demanding his attention and dragging him away. He still has the half-finished plans for its restoration sitting somewhere on his writing desk, likely buried beneath the transcripts and notes for half-a-dozen other projects still in need of his approval.

Something glints in the dark next to his boot, winking in the silvery light of the moon. When Thorin peers down and nudges the object over with his toe he sees it’s an abandoned shoe with a rusted buckle decorating the top, so small it only could have belonged to the foot of a young child. 

The bodies of his kin have been long gathered and put to rest, but pieces of their lives still linger, grim reminders scattered among the ruins, waiting to be unearthed and mourned. Thorin’s throat grows tight at the thought of dwarves fleeing to this point only to find themselves facing the steep, perilous paths that descend nearly vertically down the rocky slope. He wonders how many made it so far, how few successfully reached the ground again.

Thorin shivers. The breeze is soft but bitingly cold, cutting straight through his layers and setting its teeth against his joints to gnaw. The wretched scar that runs along his side seems to stiffen, pulling at his skin like a poorly stitched seam, and the tear in his hand aches in time with his beating heart, worsening when the tremors stutter down his limbs and reach his icy fingers.

When was it, Thorin wonders, that his body had begun turning against him? When had he started growing old?

There's snow in the air, fat, lazy flakes drifting down to form a thin blanket over Thorin’s gauntlets and collar, sticking to the messy locks of hair falling around his face. He shakes his head, cold dampness flicking against his cheeks, and it’s only when he reaches up to comb the unruly strands back over his brow that he realizes his crown is gone. 

A sick feeling rises in Thorin’s throat, lapping at the back of his tongue. He’ll have to return to Bilbo’s room to reclaim it before the night is through. In the morning he’s expected to meet with his counselors, and to arrive without bearing the greatest sign of his reign would be akin to the king coming to court dressed to play the role of the dancing fool.

Thorin wants to laugh, can feel the edges of his mouth tilting upwards in what must be a near frenzied smile. And what will he say when he goes back to Bilbo now? What explanation is there for him to give that would justify his reason for fleeing, that could possibly make Bilbo understand the befuddling mix of desire and fear that arose within him at Bilbo’s hushed whisper.

 _I should tie you down._

He knows Bilbo hadn’t meant it, only spoke the words as a glib remark or joke. But that does nothing to allay how much Thorin had wanted it, can’t erase the dizzying shock of desire that had burned through him, leaving him cotton-headed and aching with anticipation.

Even now he can’t stop himself from pondering how it would be done. Would Bilbo urge him to lie flat against the mattress or prefer him upright, leaning into the headboard with his hands bound? And what of his legs? Should his ankles be tied as well, roped off to the bedposts to keep him spread wide? Would Bilbo make him ask for what he wanted, kneeling between his parted thighs, kissed-bruised lips grazing over his skin?

Thorin trembles, though now his shaking has little to do with the cold. The fantasy is nothing if not perverse, allowing himself to be made helpless and exposed, doted on without the expectation to give back. A selfish lover, pitiful and greedy.

Except that didn’t seem right. The tantalizing image behind Thorin’s eyes shifts, melting into memory as he pictures Bilbo caught beneath him, his head thrown back, baring his pale throat as he writhed against Thorin’s worn traveling cloak.

 _More,_ he cried, mewling when Thorin thumbed at his wet slit. _Oh, please…_

And Thorin had enjoyed having Bilbo like that, still feels a wobbling heat clench tight in his stomach whenever he thinks of the wet flicker of his tongue caught between his teeth, how he gasped and groaned as his pleasure spilled. But it’s impossible to deny it now as he had then, as he does each time he seeks to break the solitude of his rooms by taking himself in hand. The burn of Thorin’s lust that night was a guttering spark when compared against the sheer sense of wonder that arose within him at the display. It was clear Bilbo felt no inch of shame in allowing Thorin to take the lead, that he enjoyed being pressed into the soft ground and cared for. 

What must it be like, to give yourself over in such a way.

But then Thorin envisions his counsel room, the glowering dwarves that advise him and his great, towering throne. What would be said were his desires somehow discovered? Already Thorin’s reputation sits on the edge of a knife, and how would it fall should rumor spread that the King of Erebor wishes to play the role of a beggar? That he would like nothing more than to place himself at the mercy of hobbit —an _outsider_ —free of the weight of his crown and the expectations of his rule, required to do no more than writhe and whimper and _take_.

A scuffling sound reaches Thorin ears, cutting through the cluttered spiral of his thoughts. He blinks and turns, his breath coming out in unsteady pants as his shoulder rubs against rough stone, wisps of hair catching along the wall’s uneven surface. Dust and thin flakes of shale clatter around his boots, strangely loud in the near-silence, and for a moment Thorin’s able to doubt what he’s heard, telling himself it was nothing, a trick of the wind or his own tangled mind.

But the noise comes again, closer now, clearer. Quick, heavy footfalls echoing up from the stairwell.

Thorin stills, caught in a moment of indecision. It could be nothing, just another dwarf with restless feet or some brash stripling wandering about where they shouldn’t be. But Thorin thinks of an unassuming boy with a knife, of the shadowed faces regarding him doubtfully in the King’s Hall, and can’t ignore the coil of doubt slowly unwinding in his gut.

He’s not carrying a sword. Orcist is too heavy for him to yield in his ruined hand and its replacement was shed moments before he set out to call on Bilbo. There’s a short knife tucked into the scabbard on his belt, flat shards of metal knitted into pockets resting over his knuckles and lining the toes of his boots.

It’s very little to rely on. 

_Sons of Durin do not run from a fight,_ Thror used to tell him, intoning the words as if he were speaking some solemn vow, as proud and unshakable as the mountain itself.

But grandmother had never agreed, liked to scoff whenever she was near enough to hear the phrase. Sometimes she swatted Thror away and took Thorin aside, rolling her eyes before looking him in his and saying, _Trust me in this child, there’s little reward for dying in foolish glory. Better to live on another day._

Thorin moves away from the ledge, sidling along the wall and into shadow just as a stout figure appears from the darkness without the guiding light of a torch, silhouetted only by the soft glow of the moon. There’s a rattle of chainmail and the snap of a cloak caught in the wind, the steady clank of a sword or axe bouncing off the dwarf’s hip as they move. 

The dwarf stumbles to a stop, chest heaving, looking this way and that before beginning to pace. They mutter quietly to themselves, nervously wringing their hands, reaching up to yank sharply at their unbraided beard. Twice their eyes seem to pass over Thorin obliviously, too enraptured by their own thoughts to notice the lone figure giving shape to the shadows. 

The dwarf turns suddenly, dashing towards the outcrop where Thorin had stood only moments ago. Thorin thinks he catches a low word or two, a frantic muttering of _here, it must be here_. The dwarf grasps at jagged line of the wall as they lean out into the night, their weight shifting towards their toes as they balance on the crumbling ledge, peering down at the rocky slope below.

A soft click is the only warning they’re given.

The brick beneath the dwarf’s fingers shifts, tugged out of place by their own added burden. It clatters down along the outside wall of the keep, and Thorin is moving before the dwarf can do anything more than gasp. He grabs at their flailing arm, gritting his teeth against the spike of pain that slashes though his hand, yanking the dwarf a step back to safety. 

The dwarf’s head snaps around, and Thorin takes in his rough-hewn features and ruddy face, the scar cutting across the bridge of his fine bulbous nose and the emblem flashing across the surface of the pin holding his cloak in place. The dwarf’s expression distorts from one of shock to relief to horror-filled recognition, and the ugly twist of his lips is Thorin’s only warning before a closed fist swings around and cracks against his jaw. 

Thorin’s teeth snap together, a hot taste exploding over his tongue as he stumbles, boots catching against the uneven tiles. He brings up his hands just in time to catch the next strike against his forearm.

“—Shouldn’t be here,” the dwarf is saying, reaching for the hilt of his sword. Thorin darts forward, clamping his fingers around his wrist, squeezing until he can feel the dwarf’s bones grinding beneath the pressure of his grip. He locks his elbows and pushes down, forces the blade to stay in place even as the dwarf fights to draw it free. 

“Stop,” Thorin snarls. Inside his glove his palm begins to feel slick and warm.

The dwarf bares his teeth and spits at his face, tries to jab his elbow into Thorin’s throat but catches the hard muscle of his shoulder as they struggle against each other. They’re pressed too close for there to be any force behind the dwarf’s blows, but he strikes Thorin again even so, the heel of his hand thumping hard against the line of his arm and ribs, brushing against the thick strap of his belt.

It’s his eyes that tell Thorin he’s noticed the dagger, how they widen and glow with the prospect of victory.

Thorin snarls and stomps on his foot, tries to twist himself out of range without releasing his hold. Still he hears the metallic drag of his dagger sliding free from its sheath, and Thorin is left with two choices, let the blade be driven into his back, or else— 

He bends his knees, opens his hands and drives his shoulder into the dwarf’s chest, watches as he stumbles backwards over himself, one step and then another. Too far. 

The dwarf doesn’t scream as he falls, only has the time to let out a choked wheezing breath before he’s over the ledge, the whites of his eyes flashing as the darkness swallows him whole. Thorin reaches again a moment too late, his fingers closing around open air. He hears the sickening crack of the dwarf’s body striking stone. A solid thump follows and then another, continuing on in uneven beats until the body finally comes to a stop against the ground far below.

Thorin holds his breath, listening for the sound of strained breathing or gurgled choking, a low, keening cry. He shouts down when the silence holds, and receives no answering call.

A hazy feeling of calm begins to settles over him, a shroud that sometimes engulfs him in the heat of battle, that he learned long ago how to tuck himself safely beneath to smother out the sound of screams and clashing steel. It keeps his mind clear even as his heart hammers in his chest, locks his knees when he wants to do nothing more than crumple.

Thorin moves like a sleepwalker, traveling blindly down the staircase, his hand fumbling along the wall to steady and guide him. Belatedly, he realizes he’s bled though his glove, that he’s leaving a trail of dark smears across the stone in an uneven line behind him. 

There’s a stone box protruding from the wall at the bottom of the steps, and Thorin rips it open to find a collection of frayed ropes looped around an assortment of pulleys inside. He touches each one in turn, rubbing his thumb over the knotted ends, taking stock of the size differences before choosing one to pull. Much of the old alarm system no longer works as it should, but there are still bells attached to the right places and whatever pulleys that could be reached were recently repaired and oiled. There is a chance, if Thorin has chosen correctly, that an echoing ring is sounding through the guard station, alerting the dwarves on duty and waking the ones who aren’t.

Thorin presses his back to the wall and waits, a sharp twinge of pain pulsing at the inside of his cheek, the tinny taste of copper taste spreading slowly over his tongue. He bows his head and spits at the floor, and his saliva comes out thick and dark with blood. 

 

 

“What do you mean, _dead?_ ” 

“Don’t be so loud.”

“Then don’t be so vague!”

Dwalin scoffs and turns the corner, his movements made sharp by irritation. Bilbo’s bare feet slip against smooth marble as he pivots to follow, catching himself against the wall before regaining his balance. He shoots a scathing look at the back of Dwain’s head, doesn’t bother wiping it clean after hurrying to catch up.

“You’re going to draw attention to us,” Dwalin says. 

“It’s the middle of the night—”

“You’re yelling, and the hallways echo. This is why I told you to go back to your room.”

Bilbo’s lips press into a thin line. He pulls in a slow breath and forces a civilized tone out from between his gnashed teeth. “I’ll just consider myself fortunate you’re not my keeper, then. Now would you please, _please_ be ever so kind and explain what’s going on?”

Dwalin’s shoulders tighten as his fingers twitch, squeezing around the band of Thorin’s crown. 

“The guards change over every four hours,” he says. “The last pair arrived at the dungeons to find no one at their post and the boy dead on the floor. We tracked down one of the soldiers that should have been standing watch and found him at home, asleep in bed with his wife. He said he left early, that the prisoner wasn’t going anywhere and that the dwarf he was with insisted it would be fine, claimed he would wait for the others and cover for him if need be.”

“You, ah,” Bilbo fumbles, a spike of worry cutting ruthlessly at what he wishes to say. “You haven’t found this other dwarf, have you?”

“No.”

Dwalin hasn’t looked at Bilbo since beginning to speak, his neck locked in place, dark eyes drilling straight ahead. It unsettles Bilbo, seeing him in such a state, tense and agitated, his knuckles white where they peek out from metal contraption that braces his hand. For all of his strength and roughness Bilbo has always been inclined to liken Dwalin to a boulder resting on flat ground, steady and solid, apt to be most dangerous when pushed to teeter on the edge of a slope.

Bilbo clears his throat. It’s a bad habit, he knows, the need he has to chatter when restless, but he finds he can’t stop himself. “Thorin will be fine, I’m sure. Even injured, he’s—” 

Dwalin’s step falters. He cranes his head around, gawking at Bilbo as though he’d just begun cursing at him in khuzdul, shock and insult warring across his face. 

“I know well enough what Thorin is capable of.” 

If Bilbo wasn’t as familiar with Dwalin’s mannerisms he may have been frightened by the low dip in his voice, the distasteful curl of his lips. 

Instead, he feels only mildly embarrassed. 

“Erm… yes.” Bilbo ducks his chin, feigning a weak cough. “Yes, that’s true.”

Dwalin snorts. For whatever reason some of the tension locking his spine seems to wane, just enough for his hackles to lay at rest. 

Bilbo clears his throat, rubbing at his nose. “You have others out looking for him, I trust?”

He’s not sure if he’s referring to Thorin or the missing guard, but Dwalin doesn’t ask for clarification. The answer, Bilbo’s sure, will be the same.

“A few.”

“… A _few_?”

“There will be questions,” Dwalin says slowly. “As to why the King is wandering about alone in the small hours of the night.”

“You think this will reflect so poorly on him?”

“I think it will be a problem if his guards start believing him a fool or seeing him as— as a young stripling that’s ditched the skirts of his nursemaid.”

“He did have guards with him to start,” Bilbo mumbles, the tips of his ears warming, feeling more and more unhelpful with each passing moment. “He just sent them away.”

Dwalin closes his eyes, pulls in a slow, deep breath, before bringing a hand up to rub at his brow, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers hard enough to leave a red mark behind on his skin. “Looking for privacy, was he?”

“That’s—”

“No point in denying it, really.” 

“I’m not denying it.” Bilbo turns his head, stares upwards and refuses to look away until Dwaln’s stubbornness cracks.

Dwalin glances down at him in turn, eyebrows tilting in a small show of curiosity. 

Bilbo says, “I was going to say that’s none of your business.”

“It becomes my business when this is what it results in.”

“Excuse you, this is hardly my fault!”

“I didn’t mean—” 

Dwalin halts suddenly, his teeth snapping as he cuts himself off. Bilbo frowns and pauses as well, and its then the sound reaches his ears, the steady rhythm of leather soles slapping against stone. He exchanges a look with Dwalin, and as one they turn just in time to catch sight of a guard rushing past the end of the long hallway, skidding to a stop and looking back around the corner when Dwalin calls out to him.

“An alarm was sounded near the keep,” the guard says, spitting out the words between gasping lungfuls of air, his face flushed and sweaty beneath his beard.

Dwalin’s eyes narrow in unconcealed suspicion. “No one should be in that area.”

The guard lifts his hand in a vague confused gesture before taking off once more, now with Bilbo and Dwalin hurrying to follow on his heels. They travel upwards in a loose winding pattern through increasingly darkened passageways, and its clear to even Bilbo’s untrained eye this section of the mountain has not yet been properly restored. There are patches of rubble blocking off diverging corridors and deep cracks splitting through the rough stone below his feet. An icy draft leaks from the walls, numbing Bilbo’s fingers and toes, freezing his breath on the air and burning at his bare cheeks.

Almost twice he’s left behind thanks to his poor eyes and short legs, occasionally losing sight of both Dwalin and their guide. More than once during the quest Bilbo found himself being lifted onto the back of a dwarf when haste was called for. Most commonly it was Dori who carried him about, though there had been times when Gloin or Bombur would reach him first, snatching Bilbo up by his collar and swinging him around to cling to their shoulders without so much as a warning.

Dwalin doesn’t follow in this tradition, though he slows his strides and pauses at the corners, calls out to Bilbo whenever they’re separated for too long of a gap. 

They first spot Thorin from a distance, the hard line of his profile traced by the orange light of a guttering torch. He’s addressing a small group of dwarves that their guide is quick to join, and as Thorin’s eyes pass over the newcomer they flicker and lift, pausing on the lone figures now hovering in the distance.

Always, Bilbo has found it difficult to decipher the nuances of Thorin’s expressions. He holds so much in such small gestures, the softening of his eyes or mouth, the slight tilt of his brows. And it could be nothing more than a trick of the light, but it seems to Bilbo that a raw weariness falls over Thorin the moment their gazes meet, weighing on him as surely as an anchor roped around his neck.

“What happened?” Dwalin asks once the guards have been sent away, rushing up the adjacent stairwell to investigate whatever’s waiting for them at the top. His eyes flash, flickering down and away from Thorin’s face towards the open collar of his tunic. Bilbo follows his line of sight, the back of his neck growing warm when he sees the red welt marking Thorin’s pale throat, fringed with shallow indents left by his own nibbling teeth.

Thorin’s face grows ruddy, the corner of his mouth tightening as he quickly buttons his collar shut. He grumbles something at Dwalin that Bilbo can’t comprehend, and it’s then that he notices the bright pop of blood resting at the corner of Thorin’s mouth, staining the bright shine of his teeth in a wet smear. 

“You’re bleeding,” Bilbo says. Despite the concern flittering within in his breast, his voice sounds strangely dull to his own ears.

“A little,” Thorin agrees, rubbing his knuckles against the swollen edge of his lips. He doesn’t look at Bilbo.

“More than that,” Bilbo says hotly, irked by the offhandedness of Thorin’s reply. He makes a half-heartened grab for Thorin’s wrist that the dwarf is quick to avoid, and Dwalin makes a disgruntled sound when he catches sight of the matted brown stain spread over the palm of Thorin’s glove.

“It’s fine,” Thorin tells them. “The bleeding’s already stopped.”

His explanation as to what’s transpired is short and clipped, and Bilbo notices he’s careful to avoid clarifying just what urged him to wander off to the outskirts of the mountain alone. Dwalin and Bilbo share a solemn, lingering look once he finishes, undoubtedly arriving at the same conclusion and not wanting to be the first to voice it.

“What?” Thorin looks between them, tension rough in his throat, grating like two sanding stones. “What is it?”

“Hirin was found dead in his cell,” Dwalin says. 

Bilbo winces at his bluntness, watching as Thorin pales. 

“He—” Thorin’s voice cuts off. He brings a hand up to his face, rubbing it back and forth slowly over his clammy brow. “How can that be?”

“A guard is missing,” Dwalin tells him, his voice quieter now, softer. “We suspect he had a hand in it.”

Thorin stills. 

“There are paths built into the wall of the keep,” he murmurs, seemingly more to himself than to them. “But to use them after so long—”

“He must have been desperate enough to try,” Dwalin says. “And paid the price already, it seems.”

 

 

The scouts return to confirm what Thorin already knows: recovering the body must wait. It’s too dangerous to send a party out to scale the mountain in the dark, not without reason to believe the dwarf somehow survived his fall.

Thorin chooses a guard at random and has him play the role of a messenger, sending him away to rouse those in need of waking, telling him to have them congregate in his chambers within the hour. He’s a young one with a thin moustache and a short braid tucked bashfully under his chin. His eyes flash bitterly at Thorin’s command.

The boy marches away without a word, though he releases a quick huff of air from his nostrils before setting off. Thorin’s temper should flare at such an outright display of insolence. He should call the boy back or send him away for good, make a show of choosing another guard to carry out the task that this snotty child cannot. But nothing inside of Thorin stirs at the boy’s actions, his outrage quashed by the bruised feeling that swishes back and forth inside his skull. He allows the dwarf leave without comment.

The journey to his quarters feels longer than it has any right to. Bilbo keeps pace at his side as the remaining guards surround them, Dwalin falling a step behind to glower silently at Thorin’s back. He’s angry, Thorin knows, at Thorin and himself and the very situation they’ve fallen into. It uproots a trickle of frustration beneath Thorin’s skin, just enough to set his teeth on edge, to make him want to turn and drag Dwalin aside if only for the purpose of picking a fight. It’s always been easy, to be rough with Dwalin in a way he’d never want to be with anyone else, to turn to sparring or bickering with him order to resolve a dispute or burn away stress.

But then Thorin looks down at himself, at his ruined gauntlet and the speckled stains blotching the sleeve of his tunic. He touches his tongue to the open cut in his mouth, the corner of his eye twitching at the sting. Unlikely, that Dwalin would raise even a practice sword against him as he is now, and all the rage Thorin found himself lacking moments before blooms unwelcomed beneath his ribs, scorching and terrible.

It must show on his face in some way for Bilbo glances at him then, eyebrows lifting even as worry shapes the soft lines bracketing his mouth. He’s spoken very little since his arrival, had been quick to step aside when the guards returned, idly rubbing his fingers together before slipping his hands neatly behind his back. For the first time in a long while Bilbo had seemed nearly out of place to Thorin, a small and fidgeting figure contrasting against the steady presence of his fellow dwarves. 

Thorin banishes the thought, detesting himself for even entertaining it. Desperately, he wants to apologize to Bilbo, for his dismissal and cowardice and everything Bilbo says he’s already forgiven him for. It all sits waiting and ready on his tongue, souring only once Thorin chokes it down and looks away.

They find Dis and Dain already waiting in Thorn’s sitting room, still dressed for sleep with their beards unbraided. Dis stands quickly from her seat by the hearth, tugging a thickly woven shawl closer around her shoulders, her dark eyes wide and amber coloured in the firelight. 

“Facing a pair of trying weeks, cousin?” Dain asks, though his voice rings hollow, lacking the boisterous cheer that tends to carry his words along. He travels across the room, his metal foot clunking heavily against the floor without his thick walking boots to soften his steps. “Should we send for a healer?”

“No,” Thorin says, wriggling his fingers and flexing his forearm to check. “No. It’s not so bad as that.”

Balin arrives moments later, ushering the guards aside impatiently even as they move to bow to him. He casts a speculative look towards his brother that Dwalin shrugs in response to, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. 

Thorin sends their onlookers away, and for the second time that hour recounts what’s happened, allowing Dwalin to fill in the gaps once he finishes. He steps close to the fire and lifts his pipe from its place on the mantelpiece, turning it between his fingers without lighting it. From the corner of his eye he spots Bilbo settling next to Balin on the couch, loose copper curls drifting over his eyes whenever he wriggles in his seat to share a quiet word.

“Was he one of mine?” Dain asks once Dwalin quiets, breaking the tense silence that’s fallen over the room. 

Thorin watches a log collapse into a heap of red, glowing embers, spitting up sparks.

“The body will be retrieved at first light,” Balin speaks up. “We’ll know then—” 

“Thorin,” Dain says. “You saw him.”

“He wore the sigil of the Iron Hills,” Thorin rumbles, thinking of the flashing clasp at the dwarf’s throat. He twists around just enough to catch sight of Dain, taking in the shadow that’s fallen over his lively face, the lines folding the inked markings on his brow.

Thorin had lied to Dis in telling her he’d never liked Dain. As a boy Thorin had always looked forward to accompanying his father to the Iron Hills, excited to see his loud, rowdy cousin. A true dwarf, Dain was, almost fully bearded before the age of seventy and said to be born with the fire of Durin burning in his blood. But Dain had been more friendly than he was intimidating, delighting in showing off his home and pestering Thorin with endless questions about Erebor and the differences that rested between their mountains. He used to sneak Thorin into the stables to show off the hunting dogs and war-goats, the wild boars they bred for riding. They saw too little of each other to ever form a truly tight-knit bond, but Thorin had enjoyed Dain’s company well enough, would have considered him a friend if asked. 

But then Smaug came in all his wrath and ruin, and the Iron Hills turned the vagrant dwarves of Erebor away. Even after Dain took over his father’s rule he never balked at his decision, promising Thorin aid only should he prove the Lonely Mountain conquerable. Thorin supposes he should at least be grateful for that. Dain did not have to come when he called, had sworn no true oath nor given any documented vow. But bitterness has grown within him like mold over the long years, sticky and black, difficult to scrub clean.

“—Send them back,” Dain is saying.

“You can’t,” Dis tells him.

“We don’t have the numbers to hold the mountain without you,” Thorin is quick to add, ignoring the look of surprise his sister sends his way, his teeth scraping over his tongue as he bites back the urge to snap at her. He had hoped that she would at least realize he’s not truly as foolish as their people seem to believe. “We still need your builders and smiths. Your army.”

Balin shakes his head. “We don’t truly have the numbers as we are now, if a rebellion is conspiring against you.”

“Only a small portion will return to the Iron Hills,” Dain assures them. “To set an example. To act as a warning.”

“You’ll be sending more innocent dwarves than guilty,” Dis says. “They’ll resent you for it.”

“He’s hoping that will make someone step forward,” Bilbo mutters quietly, clearing his throat and straightening when every dwarf in the room turns towards him. 

“Someone who knows something but may not be directly involved with what’s going on. They’ll want to…” Bilbo lifts his arm, twirls his hand about at the wrist. “Salvage their honour, yes?”

Dain releases a huffing laugh. “Just so, Master Baggins. Just so.”

“Or this will only add coal to the forge,” Dwalin says, his skepticism clear. “Push the rebels to act faster.”

“Mm, faster than they planned for, perhaps.” Dain flashes his teeth. “They could slip up in their hurry. Reveal themselves.”

“Don’t enjoy this too much, cousin,” Dis says, the high sweetness of her voice at odds with the harsh flair in her eyes. “It’s not your rule they seek to ruin, after all.”

Thorin looks away, his hair tumbling forward around his face, hiding the hot humiliation burning at his cheeks. 

He doesn’t know how long they speak for, time blurring leisurely from one moment into the next. They talk of implementing stricter protocols or curfews, of ways to ease the dissatisfaction of the people. Dain offhandedly suggests extending Nori’s duties to outright infiltration, which makes Dwalin laugh aloud and results in a small row.

“He was part of the Company, they would never believe—”

“He’s a known poacher and thief, they could be persuaded—”

“If we can return to the matter at hand,” Balin says loudly, interrupting the spat. “I think it best we decide on the story we’ll be telling tomorrow, hm?”

“Leave Thorin’s quarrel with the guard out of it,” Dis says, looking to Thorin and continuing when he nods. “It doesn’t need to be known the King was attacked again.”

Thorin has slayed countless orcs and wargs, has fought with drunken, lude men in the street and left them in crumped heaps, uncaring as to whether or not they got back up again, but never has he felled a dwarf. He feels neither guilt nor pride towards his actions, only an uncomfortable clenching low in his stomach that he deeply hopes won’t grow into anything more.

 

 

From there conversation begins to slowly deteriorate. Balin raises his hand with a creaking sigh and suggests bringing the night to a close when the following half hour of chatter results in little but shortened tempers. He glances down next to him before standing, and Thorin realizes Bilbo has fallen asleep, slumped sideways over the arm of the couch with his chin resting low against his collarbone, his head lolling sluggishly on his neck when Balin pushes up to his feet.

Dain departs with a respectful nod, pausing as if he wishes to speak and then shaking his head, deciding against it. Dis and Dwalin linger near the door, neither of them passing off so much as a glance towards Bilbo or even suggesting to wake him.

“I’m pushing back the counsel meeting,” Dis says.

Thorin shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“You’ll have enough to face tomorrow already. Besides, it’s nearly dawn and you haven’t slept.”

Thorin can hardly summon the strength to lift his shoulders into a shrug. “I still may not.”

The corner of Dis’ mouth pulls tight, closer to a grimace than a smile though her eyes soften. She reaches up to lay her hand against his face, her fingers cool and dry on his cheek, pinching just hard enough to bring a spot of colour to Thorin’s skin.

“Try.”

“Hinrid needs to be told what happened.”

Dis drops her arm. “I’ll take care of it.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Thorin,” Dwalin says, crossing his arms.

“I made the bargain with him. In public.”

“You couldn’t have received him privately,” Dis says. “Not when there was so much speculation concerning the boy’s fate.”

“If I can’t control my own people—”

“The actions of a few hardly represent the feelings of the entire mountain.”

Thorin is too tired to voice how little he thinks that matters.

Dwalin steps forward once Dis passes through the door, drawing back his cloak to produce Thorin’s crown from between the dark folds, dangling it from two fingers when he extends his arm in offering.

“Thought you might want this back.”

Thorin takes it from him, cradling it between both hands as if it were some fragile trinket he’s in danger of breaking.

“You’re not going to ask?” Thorin says, hovering between relief and hope.

“Not tonight,” Dwalin says gruffly, taking Thorin’s shoulder when he starts to turn away. 

“Whatever you two are doing,” his eyes flick towards the couch, “you’re overcomplicating it.”

Thorin clenches his teeth. “You’re not asking, but you’ll offer advice?”

Dwalin cants his head, doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest by Thorin’s ire. “Try to rest. I’ll send someone to rouse you at the second bell.”

The door clicks shut, the quiet sound of it thudding like a war hammer in the silence. Thorin dips his head, rubbing his thumbs against the band of his crown as if in a daze, tilting it to watch the warm glow of the firelight glint across its surface. 

He turns to find Bilbo awake, watching Thorin with bright, clear eyes.

“Were you only pretending to sleep?” Thorin asks.

“No,” Bilbo says. “I woke up while you were speaking with Dwalin. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Thorin crosses the room, uncomfortably aware of Bilbo’s unwavering attention, the hobbit twisting in his seat to watch where he goes. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Bilbo asks.

In the guise of an answer, Thorin says, “A guard would need to be called back to escort you to your room.”

Thorin’s crown is meant to sit on a pedestal housed in his private chambers beneath a velvet cover, but he places it atop the hearth next to his pipe, metal clinking against stone. 

He turns his back to the fire.

“I should explain myself,” Thorin says. 

Bilbo blinks, chewing on his bottom lip, seemingly caught between saying yes and no.

“After all that’s happened—”

“It’s still important.”

“Yes.” Bilbo’s voice is steady. “But it can wait, if you’d like.”

Thorin nearly smiles. _Nothing_ is as he would like.

Bilbo deflates slightly, rubbing a knuckle into his eye as he shakes his head. He lifts his face to Thorin, eyebrows arching, gesturing vaguely with his hand when the silence between them stretches unbroken.

“I…” Thorin halts, doesn’t know what he should say, how he can even begin to make Bilbo understand when he himself can barely comprehend his own repulsion. “You… surprised me.”

“Well I gathered that, I think. Will you please sit? It’s very awkward to speak with you towering over me.”

“Is it always awkward when we speak, then?” Thorin says, his humour stretched and brittle. He settles next to Bilbo, leaving the space of a cushion between them.

Bilbo doesn’t smile. “Thorin, if you didn’t— that is, I don’t want anything from you that you’re not willing to give. We don’t have to even share a bed, if you’d rather—”

“It’s not—not that I didn’t want to.”

Bilbo tilts his head, waiting, but Thorin can’t bring himself to say it, to admit to the shame and fear and the sweet taste of temptation.

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” Thorin says, unsure as to what he’s truly referring to, wishing almost immediately he hadn’t spoken at all. How pitiful he must seem. How weak. 

Bilbo’s mouth pulls in the grim mockery of a smile, and he doesn’t tell Thorin it will be all right, doesn’t tell him this is something he, or they, can fix. Thorin is glad for it, doesn’t think he could bear to have the comfort of Bilbo’s words sluice over him like water, leaving nothing behind but cold.

“Is it too much?” Bilbo asks.

“I don’t know.”

Bilbo huffs out a laugh, a quiet and cracked little thing that Thorin hates to hear. “That probably means yes. Is there something the matter with us, I wonder? We always seem just shy of the mark.”

 _Not with us,_ Thorin doesn’t say. _Not with you._

“I’ll show you to your sleeping quarters,” he says, hands falling to his knees. Bilbo deserves more than his fear, his restrained affection. 

Bilbo frowns and doesn’t make to follow Thorin when he stands. “That wasn’t much of a conversation.”

“As you said, it’s been a long day.”

For a moment he is sure Bilbo will argue, can see irritation building in the small lines tucked beneath his eyes, the quick drag of his tongue between his teeth. But instead Bilbo stands, turning on Thorin once more only after they’ve reached the guest bedroom.

“We’ll talk more on this later, when you’re rested and—and feeling up to it.”

Thorin says nothing, thankful the hallway is lit with only a few flickering candles to shadow his face.

“We will,” Bilbo insists, floundering slightly. “Um. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.” 

Finally, within the solitary of his own bedchamber, Thorin is free to rid himself of his soiled clothes. He begins slowly, fatigue lengthening his movements, peeling off his gloves and turning his hand back and forth, noting with some relief only a few stitches have torn. There’s blood marking the lines on his palms and sticking beneath his nails, and it seems to Thorin that without the weight of his gauntlets his remaining clothes seem only heavier in comparison. Weighing him down. Dreadful and smothering. 

Thorin all but tears at the bindings of his cloak, leather laces snapping as he rips it away. He drops it heedlessly to the floor, fine material crinkling around his feet as he pulls at his tunic, the button at the collar popping as he fights to fling it over his head. He kicks off his boots and wrenches at the ring on his thumb, setting his teeth against his skin when it stubbornly refuses to budge, saliva slickening the way even as he bites into his knuckle.

Once finished he steps over his scattered clothes to stand before the looking glass, wearing nothing but his leggings and socks. His chest is heaving, rising and falling in short, gasping breaths, a strange flush blooming over his cheeks that clashes against the sickly pallor of his skin. There are dried flecks of blood in his beard and his throat feels tight and dry and raw.

He moves towards his bed, stumbling before he reaches it and collapsing onto the mattress, twisting his fists against his eyes as he bows over, lowering his head towards his knees. With his heartbeat pounding in his ears and sweat beading along the back of his neck, Thorin coughs and spits, forces himself to keep breathing until the tightness in his chest begins to ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick thank you to everyone who has been following along with this story and to those of you who have been kind enough to take the time to leave kudos or comments. I know this chapter has been a long time coming, but whenever I found my motivation dwindling your enthusiasm and support was there to encourage me onwards. You are all wonderful, and I hope this ended up being worth the wait.


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